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The Story of a Little Poet 








































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The 


Story of a Little Poet 


By / 



Illustrated by 
Alice Barber Stephens 


Boston 

Little, Brown, and Company 
1901 


THE LIBRARY OF 
CONGRESS, 

Two Copitd Received 

OCT. 4 1901 

COPYRIGHT ENTRY 

i(j 6 / 

CLASS CL XXc. No. 

copy a. 



Copyright , /po/, 

By Little, Brown, and Company. 

yf// rights reserved 


October, 1901 


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UNIVERSITY PRESS • JOHN WILSON 
AND SON • CAMBRIDGE^ U.S.A. 


V 


TO 

Mu Cijtl&reit, 

CHARLES, BIRCHARD, AND EMILY, 
THIS VOLUME 

IS AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED 




Prefatory Note 



HE characters of the three children in this story — 


the hero and his brother and sister — are taken 
from life. Woven throughout the book is a collection 
of original sayings that have been jotted down from 
time to time during the early childhood of the three 
children, and also of some letters they wrote and poetry 
they composed. 


S. C. T. 




























































































































































































































. 

. 

































List of Illustrations 


The Little Poet 


Frontispiece 


“ Then in a clear sweet voice he sang 


Page 37 


Baby Grace 

Roy Arlington 

“ He gave one spring and was in her arms ” . . . . 

“ ‘ Dear old Ned,’ he said ” 

“ ‘ I will read the letter and find out what it all means’ ” 

“ His little heart under the sailor blouse was actually 
palpitating with joy ” 

The Beechwood Drive 

“ Paul and Roy rowed the blind man and his daughter, 
while in a smaller boat Hulda took Grace and Nero ” 

“ She stared in wonder at the little singer ” .... 

“ With his hand on the dog’s collar, and the doll clasped 
in his arm, he walked across the hall to the stairway ” 

“ Then again their faces would grow quite serious, and 
they would sit side by side under the tree ”... 


“ 64 ^ 

“ 82 ^ 

“ 1 19 
“ 130 


“ 150 




154 


“ 165 
“ 227 


“ 304 
“ 326 





The Story of a Tittle Poet 


CHAPTER I 

I T was not surprising that many turned to take a 
second look at him or stopped to gaze more closely 
in his face ; for he was a very attractive-looking child 
at any time, but especially so on this beautiful afternoon 
in early May. 

His light brown cloth knickerbockers and dark brown 
velvet jacket were very becoming, while the brown velvet 
sailor hat set off the golden locks and clear white skin to 
perfection. The short jaunty jacket was open, display- 
ing a daintily tucked white shirt-front. 

He was not very tall for his age, which fact, together 
with his finely cut features, and loose wavy ringlets fall- 
ing over his ears and about his neck, gave him the 
appearance of a child not more than seven years of age, 
though in reality he was nearly nine. 

It had never occurred to him that he was beautiful, 
and as he stood on the corner of one of the thorough- 
fares in a large city, with his hands in his pockets, gaz- 
ing with wonder and curiosity at an old organ-grinder, a 
few feet distant from him, he was quite unconscious of 
the admiring eyes turned upon him, and the frequent 
remarks made about his face and hair. 

He had been standing still for some moments, look- 
ing steadily at the old man, who was indeed a forlorn 


2 


The Story of a Little Poet 

object. His clothes were threadbare, his face thin and 
drawn; and, saddest of all, he was blind. A printed 
band around his hat stated that fact; it was this that 
made him especially attractive to Paul Arlington. 

“ I am blind,” he read, and stood as if rooted to the 
spot, so great was the effect upon his little sensitive 
heart. 

Finally he took from his pocket a small leather purse, 
and, taking from it a silver quarter, he stepped up close 
to the organ, and dropped it in the tin cup that lay 
on top to receive whatever “ Charity” was disposed to 
give. 

The old man heard the welcome jingle, bowed his 
thanks, then took the silver piece out to place it safely 
in his pocket. When he felt its size, he involuntarily 
bowed again, very ’low indeed, for it was rarely that he 
had the pleasure of taking a quarter from the cup ; and 
such a generous giver surely deserved especial thanks. 

“ But,” thought the old man, “ whoever he was, he 
has passed on by this time, and there is no use in my 
thanking him again.” 

He was greatly mistaken, however, for the generous 
giver had not passed on, but was still standing quite 
near him. Indeed, he leaned over the old man, and 
his sweet voice said, “ Isn’t this a beautiful day, sir? I 
know that it is a good one for your business, for so 
many people are on the street.” 

The wrinkled hand dropped the handle, and the blind 
man turned his head in the direction of the voice, roll- 
ing his sightless eyes in a manner that made little Paul’s 
heart beat quite fast, so dreadful did it seem to him. 
The old man’s lips moved as though he was trying to 
speak, but Paul did not hear a sound, though he put his 


The Story of a Little Poet 3 

head down quite close. Suddenly the organ-grinder 
turned his head in its former position, and, taking the 
handle of the organ again, continued grinding out, 
“ There 's beauty in a merry heart,” as though nothing 
had happened to interrupt him. 

“ Something must be the matter with his voice. He 
may have a bad cold, and can ’t talk, or perhaps he is a 
little deaf,” thought Paul. “ I will speak louder.” So 
he leaned over so closely that the golden locks mingled 
with the long straggly white ones of the old man’s ; then 
he said quite loudly, “ I guess you did not hear me, sir. 
Is n’t this a beautiful afternoon? ” 

“ There is no mistake this time. It is meant for 
me, after all,” thought the old man, for although the 
voice had seemed quite near before, he had come to 
the conclusion that it could not be intended for him, 
and that the words must have been meant for some one 
else. But when he felt the pressure of a small hand on 
his shoulder, and heard the same childish voice close to 
his ear, he knew that there could be no mistake, and it 
thrilled his heart with an unspeakable joy to think a 
little child thought it worth his while to speak a few 
kind words to him. Again he dropped the handle, and, 
turning his head as before, said in a very husky and 
trembling voice, “ Who are you, child ? ” 

“ My name is Paul Arlington. I am visiting my 
grandma on Spruce Street. Her name is Mrs. Wesley. 
You know her, don’t you? ” 

The old man shook his head, and Paul was surprised 
to learn he did not know her. “ I thought everybody 
knew who Grandma Wesley was,” he continued. “ But 
I will bring her around some time, and make you ac- 
quainted with her.” 


4 


The Story of a Little Poet 

The organ-grinder actually smiled at this, and 
stretched out his hand to feel the little figure at his 
side ; he longed to look at him if only for an instant, for 
his sweet voice and innocent manners had quite won his 
heart. 

“ I love to visit my grandma,” continued Paul, after 
a pause, “ because there is so much to see in the city, 
so many different kinds of people on the streets, and I 
love to watch them all. You see, I live in the country, 
where sometimes I do not see any one on the road for 
an hour.” 

“ You do not like to watch poor people like me, do 
you?” asked the old man, growing very much inter- 
ested, and forgetting all about his organ. 

“ Yes, I always watch the poor more than any others,” 
replied Paul, placing his hand on the old man’s shoulder 
as he spoke. “ I love them, and always wonder how 
and where they live, and wish I was a millionaire so I 
could buy nice homes for them all.” 

“ Would you mind stooping a bit, child, and let me 
feel your face and hair? For I am blind, you see, and 
it is the only way I have of telling how people look.” 

“ Certainly,” answered Paul, stooping immediately 
and taking off his hat, while the old man passed his 
hand softly over the golden locks, then the face and 
shoulders. “ An angel’s face,” he muttered, as though 
speaking to himself. But Paul caught the words, and 
laughed outright as he straightened up again, and said, 
“ Oh, dear, no. I ’m not an angel. You don’t know 
what a bad boy I am sometimes. I can get dreadful 
cross too, and you know angels never do,” and Paul 
laughed again, at the very thought. 

“ Are you alone, child? ” 


The Story of a Little Poet 5 

“Yes, all alone this afternoon. Grandma says she 
thinks I am old enough now to take walks by myself 
when I come to the city. I am very glad I saw you 

and became acquainted with you, Mr. What did 

you say your name was?” 

“ Graves,” replied the old man. 

“ Graves ! ” repeated Paul, thinking the name suited 
the organ-grinder exactly, and that he never saw a 
graver man in all his life. But he said aloud, “ I am 
very glad to know you, Mr. Graves, and if you will tell 
me where you live, I will go to see you some time.” — 
“For,” thought Paul, “this will be a good chance for 
me to see how organ-grinders live.” 

“ Where I live, is no place for the likes of you,” said 
the organ-grinder, shaking his head sorrowfully. 

“Oh, that doesn’t matter. I don’t mind where it 
is. I would go,” said Paul, thinking perhaps the old 
man was ashamed of his poor home. “Do you live 
all alone?” 

“ Only me and my little Hester, and it ’s a good piece 
from here.” 

“ Is your Hester Mrs. Graves?” 

“ No, she is my little girl ; my poor little lame daugh- 
ter, who keeps house for me, and — ” Here the old 
man paused, and brushed a tear from his eye with the 
back of his hand, shaking his head all the while ; his 
hands and even his body seemed to shake at intervals, 
as though he had a chill. 

Paul’s little heart was overflowing with sympathy 
when he saw the emotion caused by speaking of his 
lame child, and for a moment he could think of nothing 
to say, while he thought, “ I wish I could do something 
for him.” And his beautiful blue-gray eyes blinked away 


6 


The Story of a Little Poet 

in a quick nervous fashion that they had when anything 
appealed to his sympathies. 

Finally he said, “ You need not tell me any more 
about your little girl if it makes you sad. Of course I 
would like to hear all about her, but maybe some other 
time you can tell me better.’ , 

The old man had controlled himself somewhat, and 
was about to speak again, when they were both startled 
by a voice close beside them, — 

“ What do you mean by making yourself so familiar 
with this child?” said an officer, addressing the blind 
man. 

“ I ’m not making myself familiar. He spoke to me 
first, and sure there can be no harm in my answering the 
child. I meant no harm, sir ; I meant no harm,” repeated 
the blind man, in a trembling voice, turning on his stool 
and grasping the handle of the organ, trying to appear 
indifferent to Paul, for he thought, “There is no know- 
ing what this officer might do. Drag me to the station- 
house, perhaps, and such a disgrace would surely kill my 
little Hester.” 

“ No ! indeed, he meant no harm at all, sir,” said Paul, 
boldly. “ He is a very good man, and every time I 
come to the city I mean to speak to him.” 

“Tut, tut, little fellow. This is no place for you, and 
I think you had better be running home to your par- 
ents, for I am sure they do not know you are alone on 
the streets, and selecting companions such as he,” said 
the officer, pointing to the poor trembling organ-grinder 
as he spoke. 

A number of pedestrians had been attracted by the 
little scene, and surrounded Paul with eager faces, 
anxious to hear the conversation. 


The Story of a Little Poet 7 

“ My parents do not live here,” said Paul ; “ but my 
grandma knows I have gone out for a walk, and she 
would not care at all if I talked to Mr. Graves.” 

Every one smiled at this ; even the officer was greatly 
amused, while with the others he looked down on the 
sweet upturned face and the dignified little figure stand- 
ing quite close to the old organ-grinder, as though to 
protect him and to take his part, no matter what the 
officer might do or say. 

“Well ! well! you are a strange little chap,” he said, 
speaking kindly, and patting Paul on the shoulder. 

“ Oh ! isn’t he a dear? ” said a lady. 

“ I never saw such a lovely face,” remarked another. 
“ And to think of him talking to an organ-grinder, and 
so indignant at the officer for interfering.” 

“ Well ! I would interfere too,” another lady spoke 
up. “ If he were my child, he would not be out alone 
wandering the streets of a large city.” 

Suddenly Paul grew conscious of the many eyes 
turned upon him, and thought he had better be moving 
on. He stooped over quite close to the organ-grinder 
first, however, and said, “ Won’t you please tell me 
where you live, Mr. Graves? for I would like to go and 
see you some day, just as soon as I can.” He took 
from his pocket a little memorandum book, and stood 
with it open, pencil in hand, with a very business-like 
air, waiting to hear what the old man said. 

He hesitated a moment, then in a husky voice said: 
“ Number sixteen, Hunter Street, third floor,” for “who 
knows,” he thought, “ maybe this child might send 
some one to help my little Hester. Then I can die in 
peace.” 

Hester was all he thought of nowadays, and it was 


8 


The Story of a Little Poet 

for her support only he desired to live ; for this reason 
he would risk again the officer’s displeasure by answer- 
ing the child’s question. But this time the officer said 
nothing. With an amused smile he watched all Paul 
did with great curiosity. 

After putting the address down, Paul placed the book 
in his pocket and said sweetly, “ Good-by, Mr. Graves.” 
His expression and voice changed somewhat when he 
glanced up at the officer and said the same to him ; then 
noticing the many ladies and gentlemen looking at him 
with smiling faces, he raised his hat politely, and mak- 
ing his way through them walked rapidly down the 
street with his hands in his pockets, while they looked 
after him in wonder and admiration. 


CHAPTER II 


O N, on, he walked, never looking to the right or left, 
gazing straight ahead, with a far-off look in his 
eyes. He passed all the beautiful stores, with their 
gayly decked windows, which had been such an attrac- 
tion when he first started out that afternoon, but now he 
did not even glance at them, for he was thinking of the 
poor blind man, and wishing he was very rich, that he 
might be able to buy him new clothes and plenty to eat 
every day. 

“ I know he is half starved,” he thought, “ for I have 
seen half-starved children brought to 4 Glenwood 
Home,’ and I know the look. It is the worst kind a 
poor person can have, and makes me shiver when I 
think of it.” Suddenly his face brightened, as though 
a sunbeam had struck it, and taking his hands from his 
pockets, he clasped and unclasped them again and again 
in perfect ecstasy at the bright idea that had just oc- 
curred to him. 

“ It will be the very thing. I will invite him out to 
Beechwood to spend the day. He can bring his little 
lame daughter too ; even if he is blind, he can feel the 
grass under his feet, and enjoy the cool breezes while 
he sits under the shady trees, and rests from his organ 
all day. I will take him a row on the creek too, give 
him lots to eat, and maybe mother will find some better 
clothes for him.” 


io The Story of a Little Poet 

“ I am so glad I happened to think of it. I will ask 
mother as soon as I get home. I am sure she will not say- 
no. ” So his thoughts ran, when suddenly he thought 
.he had better return to his grandmother’s and consult 
her about it. Then looking around him for the first 
time since he left the organ-grinder, he found he had 
wandered into a neighborhood entirely new and strange 
to him. 

No matter which way he turned, he could see no 
familiar object. “ I must be lost,” he thought, but that 
fact did not seem to alarm him at all, and he concluded 
to ask some one to direct him to his grandmother’s house. 
He was just about to address a man passing near him, 
when he was arrested by the sound of loud, angry voices 
in a narrow street just below the corner where he stood, 
and, turning, he saw a group of ragamuffins surrounding 
an object on a cellar door. 

At first he could not see what it was. He started to 
walk toward them, his curiosity greatly aroused, when 
they separated, and with jeers and laughter made way 
for the leader of the group, a boy of about twelve years, 
who was dragging a poor ragged little girl roughly by 
the arm. “ Git up, git up, yer lazy thing, and don’t 
pretend yer sick,” he shouted, while his companions 
laughed the louder, as though they thought it a great 
joke. 

When Paul saw the poor, thin, ragged child, with 
haggard face, matted hair, and sleeves actually hanging 
from her shoulders in shreds, he stood for a moment 
as if petrified. 

In his whole life he had never witnessed a scene like 
this, nor heard a coarse word ; in fact, it was the first 
time that he had ever seen a cruel act, — was it any won- 


The Story of a Little Poet i i 

der he was shocked ? The old organ-grinder was for- 
gotten entirely; his condition paled into insignificance 
compared with that of this forlorn child. 

With every nerve tingling in his body, his face flushed 
with the inward emotion this scene had caused, he ran 
up to the heartless leader, and held his arm in a grip of 
which one would not have thought him capable. 

“ Don’t ! don’t do that again ! ” he said, looking right 
into the eyes of Bill Jones, the terror among the chil- 
dren of that neighborhood. 

Had an angel dropped suddenly from the skies in 
their midst, these children could not have been more 
surprised, when they turned and saw a beautiful boy, 
and heard a sweet voice speak words in behalf of 
the little waif they were taking such pleasure in tor- 
menting. 

Bill Jones had dropped the arm of the child, and 
turned fiercely to see who dared interfere with him ; 
but imagine his surprise when he saw a face upturned 
to his, such as he had never seen before, and heard a 
voice trembling with emotion, imploring him to cease 
his rough treatment of the poor neglected child. 

For the first time in his life he actually felt ashamed 
of himself. He could not have told why, but somehow 
Paul’s gaze seemed to penetrate into his very heart. 
He did not attempt to shake off the hand that still held 
him firmly, and Paul continued, — 

“You did not mean to hurt her, did you?” hardly 
thinking it was possible for any human being actually to 
desire to cause pain and suffering to a weak and help- 
less creature, and that one a little child. 

Bill Jones only shuffled his feet and shrugged his 
shoulders at this question. Then Paul stooped over 


1 2 The Story of a Little Poet 

the child who lay on the cellar door, with closed eyes, 
moaning occasionally, and apparently unconscious of 
what had just taken place. 

He pushed back the matted hair from her face, and 
tears came to his eyes when he saw the big bruises on 
her arms, caused by Bill Jones’s cruelty. So sweetly 
did he talk to her that the group of ragamuffins looked 
on in silent wonder, with wide-open eyes. They had 
never heard such words in their lives, nor ever seen a 
child like this, so it was not surprising that they were 
silenced. 

“ Won’t you open your eyes, little girl,” he asked, 
“ and tell me what is the matter?” But the child only 
moaned in reply. 

By this time Bill Jones had gained some courage and 
thought he would try to make excuses for his actions. 

“Well! she’s jist a lazy thing, anyhow, and sits all 
day a sucken her fingers. She won’t work, or beg, or 
anythink.” 

“ But can’t you see she is sick, and how can she 
work?” said Paul. 

“ That ’s only a trick of hern ; she hain’t sick any more 
en I am. Her mother says she ’s lazy, and won’t help 
her earn a cent,” continued Bill Jones. 

“ Well ! I know she is sick,” persisted Paul, sitting 
down beside the child and raising her head in his lap. 
“ And she is nearly starved too,” he went on, gazing on 
the haggard face. “ I have seen children brought to 
Glenwood Home who were sick from not having 
enough to eat, and I know how they look.” 

“ Yes, I think she is starvin’,” a little girl ventured to 
say, “ fer she told me this mornin’ she had nothink to 
eat fer two days. Her mother drinks all the time and 


The Story of a Little Poet 13 

wants Moll to beg for her, and if she don’t git any- 
think, she beats her.” 

“ Oh, how dreadful ! ” said Paul, interested now in the 
new speaker, who seemed to know a great deal about 
Moll. 

“ Do you know where she lives? ” he asked. 

“ Yes, right over there in that cellar room.” 

“ In a cellar room ! ” exclaimed Paul, more and more 
amazed. He had never heard of any one living in a cel- 
lar before. “ She shall never go back to it again,” he 
thought. “ I will take her to grandma’s with me, and 
then I will get her into Glenwood Home.” 

“ Do you feel better, little girl? ” he asked, seeing that 
she was opening her eyes and staring in a bewildered 
way into his face, as he bent over her. She had been 
somewhat dazed for a time, and had not realized what 
had just taken place, but now she was coming to herself 
again, and the first thing she seemed to be conscious of 
was a sweet voice, that sounded far off, but was growing 
nearer all the time. Then she opened her eyes and saw 
a beautiful face bending over her, surrounded by thick 
golden locks, and heard the same voice now quite 
near. 

She could scarcely realize at first that it was a real 
live child ; it seemed to her more like one of those 
strange fancies that her poor little tired brain had so 
often conjured, since she had become so weak and ill; 
but no, that could not be, for the face still remained, 
and was growing more distinct every moment. 

“ Will some one go and buy some bread or biscuit ?” 
asked Paul of the group. “ She is getting better now; 
and perhaps if she has something to eat, she will feel 
strong enough to walk.” 


14 The Story of a Little Poet 

“ I know where there ’s a shop,” said Bill Jones, 
“ and I ’ll git yer some.” 

“All right,” said Paul. “What is your name?” 

“ Bill Jones,” he replied. 

“ Please get me as much as you can with this, Bill,” 
said Paul, taking a dime from his purse, while the chil- 
dren all made eyes at each other, and were about to 
remark that Bill had better not be trusted with money, 
and that they knew he would never return. No one, 
however, had the courage to say this, for all the children 
were in fear and dread of gaining his ill-will. There was 
no telling what he would do if he discovered the one who 
told, and so they only looked and listened in silence 
when Paul said, “ Here ’s the money. Get as much as 
you can.” 

“You feel better now, don’t you, little girl?” he 
asked. “ I have sent for some bread for you. I know 
you are hungry.” 

Moll opened her eyes now very wide ; it was all com- 
ing back to her. Where was Bill Jones, with his ugly 
face, his threats and jeers? She looked about her 
wildly for a moment, but did not see him. 

“Just a few minutes, Moll,” continued Paul, “and 
Bill will be here with some bread for you.” 

What! Bill Jones gone to buy her bread? How 
strange! and what was the meaning of it all? She 
stared into the face bending over her, then at those 
surrounding her. She was bewildered and unable to 
comprehend the sudden change in her companions. 

“ What could have happened ?” she thought. Soon 
she began to realize that the child leaning over her 
must have something to do with it all. She tried to 
take hold of him with her trembling fingers, that he 


The Story of a Little Poet 15 

might not vanish away ; for somehow she felt perfectly 
safe as long as she could see him. 

At this moment they were all astonished to see 
Bill Jones actually returning, and in his arms a bag of 
biscuits. 

“ I got two for a cent, ’cause they was a little stale,” 
he said, grinning, pleased with what he thought a very 
good bargain, as he placed the bag beside Paul. 

“ Thank you,” said Paul, in such a polite manner 
that the little ragamuffins made eyes at each other 
again. They had been astonished at Bill Jones’s will- 
ingness to perform the errand, and were now amazed 
to find that he had really purchased the biscuit as Paul 
had desired, and returned with them. 

The starving child clutched wildly at Paul when she 
saw the biscuits. Her first impulse was to grab one, 
that she might quickly ease the gnawing pain of intense 
hunger; but something in the face above restrained 
her, and she trembled all over as she lay and watched 
him break off a piece, and when he handed it to her, 
she acted like a little wild animal, not taking time in her 
eagerness to chew it. 

Paul then reached out a row of biscuit on a piece of 
paper toward the children, and told them each to take 
one, which they readily did, without a second invitation. 

In a moment every crumb had disappeared. They 
reminded him of animals which he had seen at the Zoo, 
quickly devouring what was thrown to them, then look- 
ing up, silently begging for more. 

“ I am sorry I cannot give you more to-day,” he said. 
“ You see, Moll is hungrier than you, and there are only 
a few left. But some day I will come again and bring 
a large basket of good things.” 


1 6 The Story of a Little Poet 

Again all made eyes at each other, and shuffled their 
feet, not knowing what to do or say. 

The very fact of Paul trusting him with money created 
a desire in the heart of Bill Jones to show this strange 
child that he was not as bad as he perhaps had first 
imagined. 

He knew well enough what his companions thought 
when the money was -placed in his hand, and he deter- 
mined that for once he would surprise them. He could 
not imagine why this boy should have so trusted him, after 
what he saw; but innocent little Paul knew nothing of 
the world and its wickedness, and did not realize that 
because Bill Jones was cruel he would very likely be 
dishonest too. 

And it was after all his innocence and trustfulness that 
appealed to Bill Jones in a way that he had never felt 
before. Had Paul acted in any other way, very likely he 
would have taken a different stand toward him altogether. 

“ I kin tell yer all about her ef yer want ter know,” 
he said, awkwardly shuffling his feet, and thrusting his 
hands deep into his pockets. 

“ I wish you would,” said Paul, breaking off pieces of 
biscuit and handing them to Moll. 

“ Well ! I know she has lived in the cellar over there 
all her life, and she alius tries her best to git out of 
beggin’. Her mother’s a tougher, I tell yer; but she 
can’t make her beg, even if she beats her nearly to 
death. She jist makes up her mind she won’t do it, and 
she won’t. She hain’t got no father or sister or brother, 
but jist lives alone with her mother, and she ’s drunk all 
the time. Golly ! I ’m afeard of her myself, when I see 
her shaking a club at the cellar door. Hain’t that so? ” 
he asked, turning to his companions. 


The Story of a Little Poet 17 

“ Yes, ’t is,” they replied, for they knew even Bill had 
been seen to run when Moll’s mother was in a rage and 
appeared at the door with a club. 

Paul’s eyes were filling very fast as he listened to this 
harrowing tale and imagined what Moll’s life must be in 
such a home. 

“ If she is beaten so much at home, how is it you 
could be so cruel to her when she comes out?” he 
asked, looking up in Bill Jones’s face with a searching 
look that made the latter drop his eyes. “I should 
think you would all feel so sorry for her that you would 
be very kind to her when she comes on the street,” 
continued Paul. 

No one made any reply to this for a moment. Then 
Bill said, “ Enyhow she ’s jist lazy, I thought, and she ’d 
better be off beggin’ when her mother tells her to.” 

“No one can beg or work when they are sick as 
Moll,” said Paul, handing her the last piece of biscuit; 
“ but perhaps you did not know she was so ill.” 

“ No, I did n’t mean ter hurt her,” said Bill, feeling 
more at ease to find Paul was actually trying to excuse 
him. 

“ I want to tell you all that I am going to take Moll 
away with me if she can walk,” said Paul, taking a cir- 
cular from his pocket as he spoke. 

“ Do you see that beautiful place on the front page? ” 
he asked, handing the circular to Bill Jones, while the 
others closed in around him to get a glimpse. “ That 
is Glenwood Home,” he explained. “It is a place for 
poor children who live in cellars like poor Moll. If I 
can get her mother to sign her name inside, she will 
belong to the Home, and no one can take her away.” 

The children all listened with the greatest interest 


i 8 The Story of a Little Poet 

and curiosity, each taking a turn in examining the cir- 
cular closely, and gazing with wonder at the beautiful 
stone building, with its sloping lawns and large shade 
trees. They thought Moll fortunate indeed, and all 
envied her, and wished that they had been rudely 
treated, that they too might go away with her to such a 
home, with this beautiful child. 

“ Moll will never know what it is to be hungry there,” 
continued Paul. “ She will have nice new clothes, 
plenty to eat, and kind teachers to teach her how to 
read and write, to sew and cook. Dear ! dear ! how I 
wish I could take you all there ! ” and he gazed at the 
little ragamuffins wistfully. 

“ Would n’t you like to leave the hot dusty city, and 
play in the fields, and pick flowers?” he asked. “ The 
orchards at Glenwood Home look like fairyland now; 
the trees are covered with blossoms. Oh, I wish you 
could see them.” 

It all sounded very beautiful to the children, but they 
did not know what to say; they only wished he could 
stay there always, that they might watch him and hear 
him talk. 


CHAPTER III 


D OWN the narrow street walked an officer, wonder- 
ing whether the crowd he saw on the cellar door 
was surrounding a drunken parent, which was not an 
uncommon occurrence in that neighborhood, it being 
one of the worst in Philadelphia. Poor little neglected 
children swarmed there in miserable crowded homes, 
like so many bees, and were not much better than their 
parents, being taught from infancy to steal, lie, and 
perform all manner of wicked acts in order to obtain 
a few cents for their parents to spend, generally for 
liquor. 

Some of the rickety houses were crowded to over- 
flowing with the most degraded of humanity; and in 
this awful spot walked an innocent child that lovely 
afternoon in May, like a bright diamond dropped into 
a dark and muddy pool. He knew nothing of the 
world’s wickedness, and had a most tender and sym- 
pathetic little heart, which made him forget everything 
else in the world when it was appealed to as to-day by 
the scenes on the streets of a large city. 

The officer, whose duty it was to pass through this 
neighborhood several times a day, had witnessed many 
curious scenes, but never one like the present. As he 
approached, one of the boys exclaimed, “ Here comes 
the Cop ! ” and several of the children started to run ; 
but seeing Paul was unconcerned, not appearing to be 


20 The Story of a Little Poet 

the least alarmed, they concluded to stay, for, like 
doll, they began to feel perfectly safe in his presence. 

It was a very unusual sight this officer saw. A re- 
fined and handsomely dressed boy sitting on a cellar 
door, and leaning up against him a poor, sick, ragged 
girl. 

They all stepped aside when he came up, and he 
stood for a moment too surprised to speak. 

Paul did not wait for him, however. 

“Isn’t it sad to look at her, sir? She is very ill, 
and I am going to take her to Glenwood Home, where 
she will have plenty to eat, and get strong and well.” 

“See, here it is,” he said, handing the circular to 
the astonished officer. “Everybody will be kind to 
her there; and if you will please stay here and mind 
her, I will go over to Moll’s home and get her mother 
to sign the paper; then she will belong to the home, 
you see.” 

“Well! well!” said the officer, drawing a long 
breath as he glanced through the pages of the circular, 
“wonders will never cease. How did you get in this 
neighborhood, child, and where did you come from ? ” 

“Only from Grandma’s, Mr. Officer. But I was 
very busy thinking, and walked so far I got lost. But 
I am glad I did now, for I have found Moll, and am 
going to take her from her dark cellar home.” 

While he spoke he leaned Moll up against the house, 
and taking the circular from the officer, started to walk 
across the street. 

“Come back here, child,” the officer said, taking 
him by the arm. “ That is no place for you to enter. 
Tell me, is it your work to go into the highways and 
byways and gather the poor for this home? ” 


21 


The Story of a Little Poet 

“This is the first one I have found all by myself,” 
replied Paul. “And please let me go, for I musC 
hurry; Grandma will not know where I am so long.” 

“Little fellow, I do not know what she would say if 
she knew in what neighborhood you were spending the 
afternoon. I cannot permit you to enter Moll’s miser- 
able home. Come, leave the circular with me, and I 
will try some time to get her mother to sign it, though 
I doubt if she can write ; and perhaps I can send the 
child to the Home, for I do feel sorry for the little 
waif; I fear she will not live much longer under the 
cruel treatment of her mother. But, law me ! there are 
so many such as Moll, I would be picking them up all 
day did I once begin.” 

“Are there really more like poor Moll?” asked 
Paul, clasping his hands and speaking so earnestly, 
while tears actually filled his eyes. 

“Oh, yes, hundreds, child; but you must be going 
home, and never enter this neighborhood again.” 

“ But I must take Moll with me, indeed I must, Mr. 
Officer,” said Paul, decidedly. “I could not sleep all 
night if I knew she was in her cellar room again, and 
perhaps beaten by her mother, as Bill tells me she is. 
I could not leave her here,” he continued, stepping 
back to Moll’s side. 

The sick child had been listening intently to this 
conversation, and knew that a rescuer had come, a 
little angel of mercy, to take her from her cruel 
mother to a beautiful home. 

“ Take me ! Oh, take me ! ” she suddenly cried, 
stretching out her little thin arms toward Paul be- 
seechingly. “ She will be after me and beat me ’cause 
me hain’t got no money.” 


22 The Story of a Little Poet 

“Never mind, little girl, do not be frightened,” said 
Paul, reassuringly. “She won’t ever get you again; 
and as soon as the paper is signed, we will go.” 

“Gracious me! this is a puzzler,” said the officer, 
very much touched by the scene, however. “ I have 
been in predicaments before, but this beats them all. 
What will your grandma say if she sees you return 
with this child?” 

“Oh, sir, she will think it all right, indeed she 
will. My grandma is one of the managers of Glen- 
wood Home. You can see her name in the circular, 
and so are my father and mother. My grandma would 
be glad if I brought a poor, sick, little girl to her 
home; for she loves the poor, and is always doing 
something for them.” 

The officer stood for a moment busily thinking, and 
finally came to the conclusion that it would be all 
right, if what the little fellow said were true; for his 
people must be greatly interested in the poor to be 
managers of a home, and perhaps they would not ob- 
ject to receiving a waif for it. 

“ If you are very sure your folks won’t object, I will 
go over and see what I can do with Moll’s mother,” he 
said. 

“ Oh, thank you ! ” said Paul, handing him the cir- 
cular again. 

“Stand back, children, and skip home, all of you! 
Give the boy room to breathe ! ” said the officer, step- 
ping from the midst of the crowd that was increasing 
every moment. 

“Oh, they are doing me no harm, Mr. Officer,” 
said Paul. “ I love to have them around me, and I am 
breathing all right. I will come soon again,” he said, 


The Story of a Little Poet 23 

addressing the children, “and bring you all something 
nice, if you will promise me you will never be cruel to 
any one again.” 

The children all nodded their heads. “And you, 
Bill, will always be my friend if you take care of the 
little children down here, and do not let them get hurt. 
You are the strongest and largest of them all. Won’t 
you promise me ? ” and Paul extended his hand and 
grasped the great soiled coarse one of Bill Jones, the 
terror of the neighborhood, and held it firmly while 
he gazed in his eyes and waited for an answer. 

No one had ever shaken hands before with Bill; no 
one had ever spoken a kind word to him or said he 
could be his friend. Was it any wonder that this little 
street Arab was at a loss for words, or was ignorant as 
to how he should act ? 

He took off his hat with his disengaged hand, and 
his stiff black hair stood up like bristles over his 
entire head, which gave to his face a most weird 
appearance. 

Although little Paul was unused to seeing children 
such as these, he was not in the least frightened. He 
simply thought Bill Jones looked so because he was 
poor, and perhaps had no one to speak kindly to him, 
or teach him how to look clean and neat. 

“I am waiting,” said Paul, still holding his hand, 
while Bill remained silent, with his head turned away. 
He was experiencing that queer sensation again, so 
new to him, and it seemed impossible for him to find 
his voice, though he tried to speak several times. 
Finally he cleared his throat and said, quite low, 
“I ’ll promise yer.” 

“I knew you would,” said Paul. “And if you see 


24 The Story of a Little Poet 

any little children sick like Moll, you take care of 
them and be kind to them until you send me word, 
won’t you?” 

“Yes, if yer tell me where yer house be.” 

“I will write it down on a piece of paper,” said 
Paul, “so you won’t forget.” And immediately he 
tore a small sheet from his memorandum book, and 
wrote on it his name and address, and handed it to Bill. 

“ Do you work, Bill ? ” 

“No, I hain’t ever done any honest work.” 

“Well, then, I will tell my grandma about you. 
She often gets work for boys who have nothing to do.” 

Now, Bill actually felt a stinging sensation in his 
eyes which made him blink, and that queer feeling 
still continued to be felt which he was at a loss to 
understand. It was only the influence of a few kind 
words that had penetrated the hard, coarse exterior of 
this poor, neglected boy, whose nature every year had 
seemed to be growing harder, but who was still respon- 
sive to the magic touch of love. 

In the mean time the officer had gone off in search 
of Moll’s mother, and found her just awakening from 
a drunken sleep. She was sober enough, however, to 
understand all the officer said. 

“An’ sure she kin go wid yez, if that ’s all yez be 
afther. She ’s nary good ter me, and alius wus a sinse- 
less brat; Oi ’ll be bound they won’t be afther kapen 
her long,” was all that she said. 

She managed to make some kind of a scrawl on the 
paper the officer laid before her; then, without further 
talk, he hurried back to Paul, who was overjoyed to 
learn that the paper was signed, and that Moll now 
actually belonged to Glenwood Home. 


The Story of a Little Poet 25 

“ Now see if you can stand, Moll Maloney, for this 
is a happy day for you if you can,” said the officer, 
assisting her to her feet. “Now steady; try your 
best. I guess she can manage it, little fellow.” 

Paul watched her very closely as he assisted the 
officer in raising her on her feet ; for if she was not 
able to stand, he could think of no possible way of get- 
ting her to his grandmother’s house. He was de- 
lighted to find that she was not only able to stand, but 
could even walk with assistance; so he, with the offi- 
cer, kept a hand under each arm as they slowly moved 
toward the corner, where they were to take a car. 
When they arrived there was no car in sight, so Moll 
was placed on a step to rest while Paul and the officer 
held a conversation. At a safe distance stood the 
crowd of ragamuffins who had followed them with Bill 
Jones in the lead. 

“ Why is it, little fellow, you take such an interest 
in the poor? ” asked the officer. 

Paul clasped his hands, blinked his eyes, and sighed, 
then said very slowly, “ It must be because they never 
seem to have any one to love them or care for them, and 
it is such a dreadful thing to live in the world with no 
one to love you, don’t you think so, Mr. Officer? ” 

The officer coughed, cleared his throat, took out his 
handkerchief and rubbed his nose, giving two or three 
little sniffles, and then said, “ I guess you ’re right, 
little chap. It ’s a pretty tough world to live in when 
you have no one to love you or care much whether you 
are living or dead; ” and the officer thought of his wife 
and little daughter sleeping in the cemetery, and could 
think of no one living who would care very much if he 
too was laid beside them. 


26 


The Story of a Little Poet 

“And then,” continued Paul, “I am afraid they are 
often sick and suffering like Moll, and I do not like to 
think of that. To be very poor must be dreadful, but 
to be poor and sick both must be the worst thing in 
the world.” 

“What a strange little fellow you are! I am afraid 
you are too tender-hearted for a boy, and will have a 
pretty tough time of it making your way through the 
world,” said the officer, looking down in the sweet face. 

“Do you really think I shall? ” asked Paul, in such 
earnestness that the officer could not help smiling, 
although he was quite touched, and he added quickly, 
“Well, perhaps not, after all. You don’t seem to be 
afraid of anything, and are a very brave little fellow, 
I think.” 

“I want to be very brave and strong,” said Paul, 
“because when I am a man I intend to help Dr. 
Andrews work among the poor all the time. Then 
I — ” but right here the conversation was interrupted 
by the approaching car. 

The officer had written a few lines on a slip of paper 
and gave it to Paul, telling him to be sure and give it 
to his grandmother as soon as he returned home. 

“Good-by,” called Paul to the children, raising his 
hat very politely. “ I will come back again some day 
to see you all.” 

As the two entered the car, every eye was turned 
toward them, and the hardest heart could not help but 
be touched by the scene. 

A beautiful boy, with a head and face that would 
have served as a model for an artist, assisting to a 
seat a poor ragged child, who leaned against him 
confidingly. 


The Story of a Little Poet 27 

Paul did not notice the many eyes turned upon him, 
so busy was he with Moll, watching her every motion 
with a most pathetic expression, especially when she 
closed her eyes and seemed to have fallen off to sleep. 
He wondered what he should do if he could not awaken 
her sufficiently to get her on her feet again when it 
was time to get out. He finally came to the conclu- 
sion that perhaps it was a good thing, after all, for her 
to take a nap; she might be stronger and better able 
to walk from the car to his grandmother’s. 


CHAPTER IV 


“ TT is strange where he can be so long. He never 

A stayed away such a length of time before,” 
thought Grandma Wesley, walking back and forth from 
the window to the door, growing more and more 
anxious every moment. 

Her daughter Helen, a young lady of about eighteen 
years of age, was practising at the piano. Several 
times she arose and joined her mother at the door, 
looking anxiously up and down the street. 

“ Well, mother, I do hope this is the last time you 
will permit him to go out alone when he comes to visit 
us. That which I have often predicted has now come 
to pass,” remarked this young lady, when for the fifth 
time she joined her mother at the door. 

“ It seems to me, Helen dear, that a boy nearly nine 
years of age is perfectly able to take care of himself as 
far as taking a short walk is concerned. I do not think 
it wise that a boy of his years should not have a little 
freedom of action. I suppose he has simply seen 
something that has interested him, and forgotten all 
about the time.” 

“ That is just what worries me,” said little Paul’s 
young aunt, in her impulsive way. “ If he is detained 
by anything, I know it is a street fakir or a beggar, for 
you know how interested he always is in them, and how 
he watches them, and even wants to talk to them. If 


The Story of a Little Poet 29 

he were like any other child, I should not be in the least 
alarmed, but he has such strange and unnatural fancies 
about the poor that, to tell the truth, I never have any 
peace when I know he is out until I see him back again 
with us. I know he would go off with any of them if 
he were asked. Now, mother dear, you know he would,” 
she continued, while they both stood on the step, look- 
ing first in one direction, then another, for a glimpse of 
the little runaway. 

“ I do not exactly agree with you, daughter. He is 
better able to take care of himself than you imagine, 
and as to strange fancies, I do not think you can call 
them such. It is only that he has an extremely sym- 
pathetic nature and it causes him to be affected by, and 
to notice, many things another child would not even see. 
He will outgrow this trait to a great extent, I am sure 
as he grows older, and these things of course will not 
affect him then as they do now.” 

“ Well ! as long as they do affect him, I shall never 
have an easy mind when he is out on the streets alone, 
and I, for one, only hope he will outgrow this silly 
notion about the poor very soon. I think that I will 
get my hat and go in search of him,” she continued, 
turning in the door as she spoke. 

“ Perhaps you should,” said her mother, taking out 
her watch. “ It has been four hours since he left the 
house, and I will admit I am becoming a little alarmed.” 

Aunt Helen was just about to leave the house, when 
she suddenly turned toward her mother with a horrified 
expression, exclaiming, “ Here he comes down the 
street with his arms around a ragged beggar ; ” and 
before her mother could say a word, she was off on a 


run. 


30 The Story of a Little Poet 

As she approached them, she was shocked to see the 
terrible condition of the child Paul was assisting. 

“ My dear boy,” she whispered, “ you must not get 
so close to her. Take your arm off; she may have 
some contagious disease.” 

“ Oh, please don’t, Aunt Helen,” said Paul, as she tried 
to separate them. “ See ! she can hardly stand. She 
is not sick with anything only a starving sickness, and 
that won’t hurt any one. I found her nearly dead, but 
I bought her some biscuits, and she is better now, and I 
am going to take her to Glenwood Home.” 

He placed his arm around Moll again, notwithstand- 
ing Aunt Helen’s objections, for he feared she would 
fall, and said encouragingly, “ Only a few steps more 
Moll; see, just where the lady is standing on the step.” 

“ I am sure your grandma will not allow you to bring 
her in the house,” Aunt Helen whispered again. “ And 
you should have known better than to bring her home.” 

Poor Moll seemed to realize that this young woman 
was greatly displeased with her, and also with her little 
rescuer for bringing her home with him, and she began to 
tremble from very fright. 

“ Come right in,” said Paul, when they arrived at the 
house, feeling sure his grandma would not refuse her 
admittance, notwithstanding what his aunt said to the 
contrary. 

“ This is my Grandma Wesley. She is very kind, and 
you will not be afraid of her,” he said. 

The poor child shrank back in fear and trembling at 
the threshold of this house, which to her seemed like a 
great palace, whilst the elderly lady, in a stiff black silk 
gown and white lace cap, looked like some dignified 
queen. 


The Story of a Little Poet 31 

Aunt Helen stepped past them and walked into the 
house very indignantly, when she saw her mother meet 
them with a smiling face, and actually tell Paul to bring 
his companion in. 

“ Poor little girl, you are not at all well, are you ? ” 
she said ; and Moll’s fears vanished entirely at her 
kindly voice and manner, but she could not speak, and 
suffered herself to be led, and treated as they desired. 

“ She was very hungry, Grandma, and I bought her 
some biscuits,” said Paul, while they passed through the 
house to the servants’ sitting-room in the basement 

“ I am very glad you thought of that, Paul, but I think 
I will give her some broth ; then she can rest while we 
are at our dinner.” 

“ Grandma knows just what to do always,” thought 
Paul, as he watched her, with Jane’s assistance, prepare 
the broth for Moll, while the sick child sat quietly and 
never uttered a word, but looked from one to another 
curiously, taking in her new surroundings. It was all 
so strange and wonderful that she was quite bewildered. 

While Paul was away, his grandmother had given 
instructions to Jane to wash the child, and dress her in 
some of Aunt Helen’s outgrown clothes. “ I will throw 
them down the stairs to you,” she said. “ And it will 
be a surprise for Paul when he comes down again after 
dinner.” 

“ Now, Paul,” she said, when they were seated at the 
table, “ tell me all about it. I did not want to ask you 
before the child.” 

With hands clasped before him on the table, he began 
to relate his experiences of the afternoon. 

Several times Grandma brushed away a tear, for he 
spoke so earnestly and seemed to feel so keenly all that 


32 The Story of a Little Poet 

he said, it was quite pathetic to listen to him. He had 
an odd little way of catching his breath every now and 
then, whenever relating anything that appealed to his 
sympathies, and it was very interesting at such times to 
hear him talk and watch the varied expressions upon 
his face. 

“ Before I found Moll I became acquainted with an 
organ-grinder,” he began. “ He was blind, and had 
such a sad face it almost made me cry, Grandma dear. 
It was all drawn down this way; ” and Paul pulled each 
cheek down as far as he could get it, then rolled his 
eyes as he remembered the blind man had done. 
“ And his forehead was all in deep wrinkles, like this,” 
he went on, again illustrating by frowning his own 
forehead. “ And his hair hung down over his ears, 
straight and white. I guess he had no money to go to 
the barber’s. His clothes were old. Oh, I guess 
about a hundred years, but he was nothing, nothing to 
poor Moll. I forgot all about him when I saw her, and 
yet it was thinking about him that made me find her, 
for you see I was thinking so hard I did not know how 
far I was going until I found I was lost. Dear ! dear ! 
when I heard those children shouting, and saw a big 
boy drag poor Moll from the ground so roughly, I felt 
like closing my eyes and thinking it was all a dream.” 
And here Paul leaned back in his chair and pressed 
both eyelids down as though even now he wished it 
really had been a dream. 

“ I ran right up to them, and said, Stop, don’t do that 
again.” 

“ It is a wonder to me that you were not knocked 
down and killed,” interrupted Aunt Helen. 

“ Why, he never even spoke a cross word to me,” said 


The Story of a Little Poet 33 

Paul. “ He stopped right away, and they all stopped 
laughing and let me do just whatever I wanted to. 
Then I thought, poor little things, I guess they don’t 
know any better. Perhaps if they had some one to 
teach them, they would all be good. I shook hands 
with Bill before I left, and he was so quiet and just as 
good as he could be.” 

“ Goodness ! ” exclaimed Aunt Helen, with a shudder, 
“ did you wash your hands thoroughly when you came 
home? ” 

“ I did not think about the dirt,” said Paul ; “ it would 
not hurt me, anyhow.” 

“ My dear little tender-hearted boy,” said Grandma, 
“ it was very sweet of you to rescue that poor child, but 
you are too young yet to attempt such things by your- 
self, and wander in strange neighborhoods ; and, my 
darling, you must not try to carry the whole world 
upon your shoulders ; remember all poor children are 
not sick and suffering like Moll ; there are many happy 
children among the poor, and I have even seen them 
look rosy and sturdy. 

“ You are right about Moll. She is simply starving, 
and I think in a few days, with plenty to eat and good 
care, she will improve greatly.” 

“ Oh, I forgot the note the officer gave me,” said 
Paul, suddenly recollecting it. “ He said I was to give 
it to you as soon as I returned home.” 

Grandma put on her glasses and read : — 

Dear Madam, — This afternoon I found your little grand- 
son in one of the worst neighborhoods in the city, with a poor 
neglected child he was bent on taking home with him. 

I tried to persuade him to leave her with me, and I would 
3 


34 The Story of a Little Poet 

see that the circular was signed, and have her taken to the 
Home, where he assured me she could be admitted, but he 
insisted on taking her, and declared his folks would not object 
to his doing so. 

I see in the circular that his parents and yOu are among the 
managers, so thought perhaps it would be all right to allow him 
to take her. But if it should not be just as the little fellow 
represented, send me word, and I will call for the child. I 
would like to see her placed in a home, as she is cruelly treated 
by an intemperate mother, and lately looks as though she was 
starving. I managed to get her mother to sign the circular. 

Very sincerely yours, 

James Harris, 

2004 Street. 


“ What did he say? ” asked Paul. 

“ He just told me what you did, that Moll was poor 
and neglected, and that he would like to see her placed 
in a home, if possible,” replied Grandma. 

“ Oh, what a kind policeman he is ! He did not 
want me to take Moll at first ; but I told him I knew 
you would be glad if I could save a poor little girl from 
starving, and you are too, are n’t you, Grandma?” and 
Paul placed his arms around her neck as he stood by 
her chair. 

“ Yes, I am very glad she is saved,” replied Grandma, 
imprinting a kiss on his forehead. 

“ There was no use in scolding him for wandering so 
far away,” she thought, “ it has been such a pleasure to 
him to rescue this little one, and I will not make him 
unhappy by telling him of dangers he risked in that 
wretched neighborhood. I know it will never happen 
again.” 

“ If I had my way, I would have sent immediately 


The Story of a Little Poet 35 

for an ambulance, and had the child taken to a hospital,” 
said Aunt Helen. 

“ The child is only weak for want of food,” said her 
mother, “ and I am sure has no contagious disease. 
Paul and I will take her to Glenwood to-morrow if 
she can stand the journey;” and Grandma smiled as she 
gazed in the interesting little face upturned to hers, and 
felt the pressure of the arms around her neck, where 
Paul still kept them. 

“ Don’t you think that if you give her plenty to eat, 
and she sleeps all night, she will be a great deal better 
to-morrow, Grandma?” 

“ Yes, I am sure she will,” replied Grandma. 

“ May I go down to see her before Jane takes her to 
bed?” 

Grandma answered by taking his hand, and, rising 
from the chair together, they walked to the basement to 
see the transformation. 

Paul was greatly surprised, as well as delighted, to 
see Moll sitting in a rocking-chair, clothed in garments 
neat and whole. Her matted hair had been cut and 
brushed back from her face, which was as clean as soap 
and water could make it. Such a change did it make 
in her appearance, Paul could scarcely believe it was 
the same child he had led into his grandmother’s house. 

“She is very sleepy, mum,” said Jane, “and is 
afther closing her eyes every little while.” 

“ Poor little child, she is very weak. I would give 
her some more broth shortly, Jane, and then perhaps it 
would be best to put her to bed,” said Grandma. 

“Yes, I think that would be best,” said Paul, in his 
serious, old-fashioned way. “ Good-night, Moll,” he 
said ; “ I hope you will have a good sleep and in the 


36 The Story of a Little Poet 

morning be strong enough to go to Glenwood. Jane 
will take good care of you.” 

The weary child only gazed in his face as he leaned 
over her chair, but she said nothing; and as his grand- 
ma and he passed out of the room, she looked after 
them wistfully. 

“I wonder why it is she won’t talk?” asked Paul, 
while hand-in-hand they walked through the halls to the 
library above. 

“ It is only because she is weak and somewhat dazed, 
I suppose, by the sudden change in her surroundings,” 
replied Grandma. “ But she appreciates all that is done 
for her, I am sure of that.” 

“ Oh, yes ! I know she is happy and wanted to come 
with me,” said Paul, earnestly ; “ for when the policeman 
tried to coax me to leave her with him, she stretched 
out her arms to me and begged me to take her. When 
she is stronger she will talk, and tell us all about her 
cellar home, don’t you think so, Grandma?” 

“Yes, I am sure she will,” replied Grandma; “and 
now do not think any more about her to-day. We are 
going to have some singing. Aunt Helen sent home 
for those two songs, you remember ; and they arrived 
when you were out. We are very anxious to hear 
them.” 

She referred to two little poems Paul had composed, 
and which his mother had found in his pocket one day. 
His parents both thought them pretty enough to have 
set to music, and so had it done. 

Aunt Helen was already seated at the piano when 
they entered the library. 

“ Come, Paul, I have been waiting all the afternoon 
to hear you sing these songs,” she said. “ Now do let 





The Story of a Little Poet 37 

the beggar child rest for the night at least.'’ And he 
did for a time forget all about her, for he was very de- 
sirous to hear their opinion of these songs, which were 
of special interest, on account of the words being en- 
tirely his own composition. 

He stood by the piano, while his aunt played the 
prelude, then in a clear sweet voice he sang : — 

“ The daisies, bright daisies, 

Blooming in the spring, 

Oh, how I love the daisies, 

That come when robins sing. 

The spring with all its flowers 
Has many charms for me, 

Yet of them all I think I love 
The daisy wild and free. 

“ The daisies, sweet daisies, 

Making earth so gay, 

Oh, how I love the daisies, 

That cheer me every day. 

Springing up in meadows, 

In the early spring 
In the fields and by the brook, 

What happiness they bring. 

il Oh, daisies, bright daisies, 

Everywhere I look, 

Oh, how I love the daisies, 

When walking by the brook, 

Or running down the shady lane ; 

They greet me everywhere, 

And it seems that when the daisies bloom, 

All is bright and fair.” 

“ Beautiful ! ” exclaimed Grandma. 

“ It is simply too sweet for anything,” said Aunt 
Helen, turning around, and throwing her arms around 


38 The Story of a Little Poet 

her little nephew, and kissing him several times in suc- 
cession in her impulsive way. 

“ When did you write them? ” asked Grandma. 

“ Oh, a long time ago : last spring, I think. I was 
walking through the fields one day. I saw daisies grow- 
ing everywhere, and those verses came to me, and I sat 
down in the field and wrote them on a slip of paper I 
found in my pocket. But maybe you will like the 1 ily 
song better,” continued Paul. “ It is shorter, but it is 
my favorite.” 

“ Well, we shall soon see,” said Aunt Helen, begin- 
ning the accompaniment, and now his voice rose high and 
clear, the lily song bringing it out in all its fulness. 

The servants had collected in the doorway to listen, 
and catch a glimpse of the little singer, and the beggar 
girl in the basement had fallen asleep in the rocking- 
chair, but was aroused from her slumber by the sweet 
voice, which fascinated her every time she heard it. 
She looked about her bewildered and startled for a mo- 
ment. Where was he, she wondered, as she strained 
her ear and listened attentively, while at the same time 
a dreadful fear seized her at finding herself alone. 
What if her mother should suddenly appear and drag 
her off to the dark cellar again and beat her. She 
glanced at the window with a look of terror in her eyes, 
then at the doors, as though she expected to see her 
scowling face appear at one of them. 

One desire took possession of her, quickly to seek 
her rescuer. He could not be very far away, and in his 
presence she would feel safe, even if her mother did 
appear. Trembling, she arose, and made her way to the 
door, then walked cautiously along a hall which led to 
a stairway she saw at the end. “This must be the 


The Story of a Little Poet 39 

way,” she thought, as she slowly ascended. When she 
reached the top, she was obliged to sit on the floor for 
a few moments to rest ; then again she was on her feet, 
and passed through a pantry which opened into a hall- 
way. Her feet sank in the soft carpet, and she looked 
down upon it with great curiosity, and even stooped 
once to rub her hand over it. She glanced at the fres- 
coed walls and the beautiful pictures that hung on 
them as she glided along. She would have stopped 
to examine all these wonderful things more closely, but 
the uppermost thought and desire was to reach the 
singer. To be in his presence was what she sought 
above everything else; then she would feel safe, and 
free from the awful dread that filled her heart. 

She turned a curve in the hall, then quickly stepped 
back when she saw the butler and several maids stand- 
ing in a doorway; but oi\e of the maids had seen her, 
and stepping up to the child, spoke kindly to her and 
took her hand and led her to the door, that she too 
might see and listen to the little singer. 

She never uttered a word, but stood in wonder and 
amazement as she peered into the room, with its hand- 
some furnishings. The mirrors, the glittering chande- 
liers, the heavy velvet draperies, all filled her with awe, 
for never before had she ever seen anything so magnifi- 
cent. Then there was the sweet elderly lady, who 
greeted her so kindly at the door ; but the little singer, 
standing by the piano at the farther end of the room, 
was the greatest attraction, after all, for this poor little 
outcast. 

Paul’s back was turned toward her, and while he sang, 
he seemed unconscious of those listening to him. Not 
a sound was heard except the sweet voice, and the 


40 The Story of a Little Poet 

beggar child gazed with wide-open eyes and mouth, her 
breath came in short, quick gasps, while she stood as 
one entranced, framed in the crimson velvet curtains 
that draped the arched doorway. 

She heard every word that he sang very plainly; and 
although she could not comprehend their fullest mean- 
ing, having never been in the country, and knowing 
nothing of the song of a bird, or the beautiful sight of 
the water-lilies, and the wide-spreading shade trees 
which Paul was singing about, yet the song thrilled her 
with a keen pleasure she could not understand. For 
the time she was oblivious to everything else, as she 
listened to these words sung and composed by her little 
rescuer: — 

“Just to glide gently down the stream, 

The beautiful Beechwood stream, 

Just at the time when the lilies grow, 

And the soft summer breezes blow. 

With no other sound save the splash of the oar, 

And the note of a bird overhead as it soars. 

Like the land of the fairies it looks as I row, 

Down where the sweet water-lilies grow. 

“Just to be screened by the tall spreading trees, 

And see the leaves sway in the gentle breeze, 

Just to be watching the sunbeams at play, 

Among the lilies so bright and gay, 

While dipping the oar gently to and fro, 

Down where the sweet water-lilies grow.” 

As the last note died away, Aunt Helen again clasped 
him in her arms and showered kisses upon him, ex- 
claiming as she did so, “Why, my dear boy, you are a 
born poet. Those words are very sweet, and the air 
is so well adapted to them. Actually, I could almost 


The Story of a Little Poet 41 

see Beechwood Creek while you sang, just as it looks 
when the water-lilies are in bloom.” 

“ Aunt Helen is right, Paul,” said Grandma; “you 
surely are a born poet. The words and air are both 
beautiful, and I agree with you that it is the prettier of 
the two songs.” 

“ Now that is an occupation and talent I am proud 
of,” said Aunt Helen. “ To have such pretty thoughts, 
and to be able to express them in verse, suits you much 
better, Paul, than roaming through the slums of a large 
city after beggars, and I am sure you will be a greater 
success as a poet than a philanthropist any day.” 

“A what?” exclaimed Paul, not knowing the mean- 
ing of that large word. 

“Why, a phil — ” but she did not finish the word, for 
with a bound and a loud exclamation, Paul was making 
for the door, having caught sight of Moll shrinking like 
a little frightened animal back of the curtains. 

“Why, Moll, I did not know you were here,” he said. 
“ Come right in and take a chair. You are not strong 
enough to stand so long.” He took her hand while he 
spoke, and led her into the room, and seated her on 
one of the handsomest chairs which the room con- 
tained. It was embroidered with flowers ; she hesitated 
when she saw the beautiful embroidered flowers, think- 
ing it was hardly possible they were meant to sit on. 
Then she placed herself cautiously as near the edge of 
the chair as possible, but that did not satisfy Paul. 
“ Sit right up on the chair, Moll,” he said. “ You will 
be more comfortable. Lean against the back, and I 
will get a stool for your feet.” 

Grandma and Aunt Helen could not resist smiling as 
they watched this little scene ; Aunt Helen was actually 


42 The Story of a Little Poet 

even rude enough to laugh outright when Paul brought 
the stool and placed Moll’s feet upon it with his own 
hands. 

“ Now you will be all right,” he continued, “ and I 
will sing again for you if you like to hear the songs.” 

Moll only nodded her head, as she did in answer to 
all his questions. She was awed by all the grandeur 
that surrounded her, and yet she felt perfectly safe now 
that she was in the presence of her little rescuer. She 
longed to be always near him, that she might watch 
him and hear him talk. She had tried several times 
to speak, but it seemed to her impossible to make a 
sound, and the words seemed to stick in her throat like 
a large lump, filling it up and making it impossible to 
utter a syllable. 

“ Are you not too tired to stay up any longer?” 
Grandma asked her. 

Again she only nodded in reply. 

“I think she is rested some, mum,” spoke Jane from 
the hall. “ She has had several naps in the chair, and 
was afther walken up here by herself to hear Masther 
Paul sing.” 

“ If you think she had better go right to bed, Grandma, 
I will sing for her some other time,” said Paul. “ Be- 
cause I want her to be strong enough to-morrow to go 
to the Home.” 

“Well, I do not think it will do her any harm to 
listen to a song or two. She must enjoy singing, to 
find her way up here when she heard your voice.” 

“Sing the lily song again,” said Aunt Helen. “I 
would like to hear it, and I know Moll would too,” she 
continued, turning and smiling at the frightened child 
for the first time. In spite of all she had said, she was 


The Story of a Little Poet 43 

beginning to be somewhat interested in her. Paul 
stepped over to the piano, and again his sweet voice 
filled the room. Moll sat as one entranced, her thin 
fingers clutching at her dress nervously, her mouth 
open, and her eyes fixed on the little singer. 

As soon as the song was finished, Paul stepped over 
to her and said, “ Do you like that song? If you could 
see Beechwood Creek, you would like it better. Beech- 
wood is the place where I live, you know. Don’t you 
think it a pretty name? A beautiful creek runs right 
through our place ; large trees grow all along its banks 
and meet overhead in places. All kinds of wild flowers 
grow there, daisies everywhere, wild roses, violets, and 
mosses and ferns of all kinds. Some of the rocks are 
just covered with lichens and moss. I know you would 
think Beechwood was beautiful if you could see it. Per- 
haps sometime I can drive over to the Home for you, 
when you get strong, for it is only a few miles from 
Beechwood. Don’t you think I could, Grandma?” he 
asked, turning toward her. 

“ I do not know of any reason to prevent you,” she 
replied. 

“Would you like to see Beechwood?” he asked 
Moll. 

She nodded her head in reply. It all sounded very 
beautiful. She could not, however, in her imagination 
picture just what such a place could be like. She only 
stared and listened. He would take her there if she 
was willing to go ; she understood that much fully. It 
might be something like the beautiful place she was in 
now, with water, trees, and beautiful flowers added. She 
would go, yes, anywhere with him. 

Again Paul and his grandma bade her good-night, 


44 The Story of a Little Poet 

and without a word she went with Jane, who took her 
by the hand and led her off to the most comfortable 
bed she had ever slept upon. 

The next day Paul’s delight knew no bounds, when 
he found himself accompanied by Moll and his grandma, 
actually rolling away in the train toward Glenwood 
Home. Moll had spent a good night and improved 
wonderfully. She was still, however, very quiet. It 
seemed impossible even to get her to speak a word. 

This was her first experience on a train, and the sen- 
sation was a delightful one to her; and when they left 
the city behind them and sped along through green 
fields and woods, over bridges, and caught glimpses of 
lovely suburban.residences, with their velvet lawns dotted 
with flower-beds, with happy children frolicking over 
them, it made her feel as though she were being trans- 
formed into another being, and entering a world entirely 
new and strange. It was the one her little rescuer lived 
in, she was sure, for everything was so like him, so sweet, 
so bright and wonderful, she was enchanted, as she sat 
gazing out of the window while one scene after another 
followed in rapid succession before her astonished 
eyes. 

The Home physician examined her very carefully 
when they arrived there, and stated, as Grandma Wesley 
had said, that she was simply half starved, and weak for 
want of proper nourishment. 

She still appeared to be dazed by her new surround- 
ings and never uttered a word, though her changed 
expression told them how pleased and grateful she 
was. 

“ I will come to see you in a few days,” said Paul, 
as he bade her good-by. “You will be very happy 


The Story of a Little Poet 45 

here, and soon will get strong and well, and when the 
water-lilies are in bloom, I will drive over for you, and 
row you down the Beechwood Creek, so that you can 
see them.” 

Then with a good-by to the matron, his grandma and 
he left Moll in new hands. 


CHAPTER V 


I T was no wonder that there were tears in Paul’s eyes, 
even though he was a boy nearly nine years of age, 
neither was it any wonder that his little heart was 
beating so fast that he pressed his hand against it to 
still its wild throbbings, for he had just heard some 
dreadful news. 

Paul was sitting in one of the summer-houses in the 
Beechwood grounds and had just been reading a very 
interesting book; but it had fallen from his hands to 
the floor when he overheard Aleck, the coachman, 
bring this dreadful news to Pat, the gardener, who was 
working in a flower-bed close by. 

They did not know of the occupant of the summer- 
house, for Paul was entirely screened from view by the 
thick vines that covered it, and the door faced an oppo- 
site direction. 

“Have yez heard the news, Uncle Pat? ” exclaimed 
Aleck as he approached. 

“No, Oi hev dishcovered no news phwat wud make 
me luk like I ’de taken lave of me sinses, fer shure; 
an’ Aleck, yez do luk this minit as if dere wus not a 
grain left in yer head,” and Pat leaned on his spade and 
laughed in his jovial way at Aleck’s woful expression. 

“Mebby yez won’t be afther laffin when yez hears it, 
Uncle Pat,” said Aleck, shaking his head seriously, 
hesitating to come out right with the news, knowing 


The Story of a Little Poet 47 

well what a blow it was going to be to his old 
uncle. 

“Mebby not, and mebby so,” said Pat, raising his 
brows and staring at Aleck with an amused expres- 
sion. “But out wid it, me bye, out wid it! ” he con- 
tinued. “Yez knows it’s always a mountain out av a 
mole-hill yez be afther making and a crossin’ av the 
bridge afore yez come to it. Now tell me quick, 
phwat ’s yer truble this toime?” 

Aleck was always full of trouble and always made a 
great fuss over a very small matter. He invariably 
came to his Uncle Pat to help him smooth things out; 
for he, on the other hand, was jolly and good-natured, 
happy in the one thought that he had a good home, a 
good boss, and plenty to eat, “and phwat more could 
a poor man be afther asken ? ” he had frequently said. 

“Oi’m tellin’ yez the honist truth, Uncle Pat, 
indade, am Oi,” continued Aleck, still beating around 
the bush, trying to break the news as gradually and 
gently as possible. “Moind Oi ’m in arnest, and it ’s 
not a foolin’ yez am Oi this toime.” 

“Thin out wid it! out wid it, Oi say, and don’t be 
afther sthandin’ there loike a sinseless idiot!” and 
Pat brought down his spade with great force on the 
ground, to make his words more emphatic. 

“Well, thin, if yez will hev it, Uncle Pat, Oi ’ll be 
afther tellin’ yez thot — thot, tek it aisy now, — the 
boss is afther failin’, and Beechwood will be sold.” 

“Och ! be off wid yez, Aleck, me bye, wid the tellin’ 
av sich a tale as thot. Oi can niver belave the loikes 
av it ; where did yez iver hear it ? ” said Pat, leaning 
on his spade and laughing at the very idea of such an 
impossible thing. “ Why, Aleck, me bye, the boss is 


48 The Story of a Little Poet 

the richest mon fer miles aboot, and yez know his 
father and grandfather owned the place afore him, and 
how could they take it away from him? Oi must have 
thruer ividence then yez word afore Oi can belave it.” 

“Ton me word, Uncle Pat, Oi ’m afther tellin’ yez 
none but the honist truth; whoy, the farmer read it 
wid his own eyes in the marnin’ paper, aboot a panic 
and some mon falin’ to pay the boss phwat was owin’ 
him.” 

Pat now leaned quite heavily on his spade, and the 
smile disappeared from his face, and his knees began 
to tremble. If it was in the papers, that was enough 
evidence for him. As Aleck had predicted, the news 
almost took his breath, and for a moment he could 
not speak; then he shook his head sorrowfully and 
said, “ Indade, and is thot so. If the paper tells it, 
thin shure an’ Oi must be afther belavin’ it. But 
moighty sorry am Oi for the boss and the rist. There 
niver was a thruer gintlemon, and it ’s owin’ to no 
fault av his, whatever it moight be.” Then, for the 
first time in his life, Aleck saw his old uncle wipe a 
tear from his eye with his red handkerchief. “ It ’s not 
young am Oi any more, to be sure, Aleck, me bye,” 
he went on, “and who will tek an’ ould mon loike 
meself to worak fer him.” 

Just then Aleck was called and was obliged to leave 
old Pat alone with his sorrowful thoughts. He sat 
down on the grass when Aleck turned away, to think 
it all over, and at the same time little Paul in the 
summer-house was thinking it over too, or trying to, 
for the conversation he had just overheard seemed to 
have turned his brain ; he could not collect his thoughts 
and bring himself to realize that what he had just heard 


The Story of a Little Poet 49 

was really true. Every word seemed to pierce his 
heart like so many arrows ; he was stunned, and fairly 
gasped for breath. “ Beechwood will be sold ! Beech- 
wood will be sold ! ” Those dreadful words kept ring- 
ing in his ears and sent sharp shooting pains through 
his head. For a minute everything looked blurred 
before his eyes ; then he closed them, pressed his head 
with his two hands, when suddenly the nerves relaxed, 
and his eyes began to fill with tears. He peeped 
through the lattice-work and leaves, and saw plainly 
the top of Pat’s old straw hat, and knew he was sitting 
down, too overcome by the news to continue his work. 

“Poor old Pat! ” he thought, “he loves it as well as 
I do. I will go to him, for I must go to some one; ” 
and as though glad he was so near to sympathize with 
him in this awful moment, he arose and ran out of the 
summer-house. 

Pat scarcely realized his presence before he felt two 
arms around his neck and a head pressed on his shoul- 
der, and heard great sobs, which now could not be 
controlled. 

Pat just pressed him to his heart for a moment; 
neither spoke a word; then Paul said, between sobs, 
“Oh, Pat, dear old Pat, tell me it is not so.” 

“Me bye! me bye!” was all Pat could say just then, 
for he was almost choking himself with his efforts to 
keep back the tears. 

“We can-not — gi-give — it — up — can — we — we 
— love — it so much — don’t — we — dear — old — 
Pat?” 

“ Oh, me bye ! me bye ! ” Pat repeated again, hold- 
ing him tighter and rocking his body to and fro. 
Then he took out his old handkerchief and wiped the 

4 


50 The Story of a Little Poet 

tears from Paul’s face, then one or two that had found 
their way on his own cheek, making a great effort to 
control himself, that he might say something to com- 
fort Paul. 

“Niver moind, niver moind, me little mon,” he 
finally said. “Don’t be a graven av yerself so hard, 
fer it ’s sick yez will be; thin yez poor father will be 
afther having more trubles. Dere, dere, me bye, be 
a brave little mon thot yez alius wus, and mebbe it is 
not so bad as the loikes of the sthory Aleck be afther 
tellin’.” 

The tears were a great relief to Paul, although he 
did feel ashamed of them, for he rarely cried, and 
never as he did now on Pat’s shoulder; but Pat would 
never tell, he was sure of that, and Pat knew him, and 
that he was no baby. 

“The pain here is not so bad now, Pat,” he said, 
raising his head and placing his hand on his heart. 

“ Oi ’m moighty glad av it, me darlint, moighty glad 
indade. Oi know it will be afther doin’ yez good. 
Oi ’m sorry that mebbe yez will be afther lavin’ yer 
iligant hame. Oi knows how yez love it, — ivery 
flower, ivery tree, and ivery blade av grass. But thin 
yez are young, me bye, wid a long life afore yez, while 
poor ould Pat is near the ind av his journey.” 

Those sad words made Paul forget his own sorrow 
for the time, for what did they mean but that Pat did 
not expect to live much longer, and that his journey 
on earth was nearly over. His little heart went out 
now in fullest sympathy for poor old Pat, for, after 
all, he thought, “it must be worse for him,” 

“Don’t talk that way, please don’t, dear Pat,” he 
said, drawing his head down close to his own, while 


The Story of a Little Poet 51 

he still lay in his arms. “ Why, you might live to be 
a hundred, and I will take care of you even if father 
has failed. Maybe you can go with us, anyhow,” and 
Paul patted his head affectionately. 

“Me bye! me blessed bye! Yez heart is as tinder 
as an angel’s, and Pat O’Reily will niver forgit yez 
kindness to him ; but yez father could niver be both- 
ered wid the loikes av me if it ’s lost his money he 
has. Oi wud only be a sthumblin’ -block in his way. 
Thrue, he wus alius afther sayin’ he wud look afther 
me all moi life, but he niver knew av this when he 
shpake.” 

“I mean to ask him, anyhow, Pat, and if he really 
can’t keep you, I know he can find some one who will; 
and just as soon as I get old enough to work, you can 
live with me, so do not be sad any more, will you ? ” 

“Oi ’ll try to plaze yez, me darlint, if yez will kape 
a brave heart yerself. Yez know Oi cum to Beech- 
wood win yez grandfather was here, long afore yez own 
father was born. Oi niver thot Oi wud be afther 
lavin’ it, me bye, and thot me trubles wud kem whin 
Oi wus ould an’ gray.” 

“Everybody has to have troubles, though,” said 
Paul. “ Dr. Andrews said so, and that we are always 
better when we have had them; but I guess nobody 
has ever had such an awful one as this, do you think 
so, Pat ? ” 

“ Oi knows some have even worse trubles thin this, 
me bye. Oi guess thim words av the minister’s are 
thrue, and ungrateful to the Lord am Oi to hev forgit 
all His goodness to Pat O’Reily, fer the crosses He 
sint me wus alius light; an’ shure it ’s a hard heart Oi 
hev to be afther fergitin’ av His goodness all me life.” 


52 The Story of a Little Poet 

“That is so, Pat; we never see His goodness when 
dreadful troubles come, do we? And yet we ought to. 
We only seem to see the trouble. ” 

“Yer right, me bye, yer right. Thim words are 
thrue; we ought to, and Oi ’ll try to see only the good- 
ness av the Lord’s, and shure yez will too, won’t yez, 
me darlint ? ” 

“Yes; I ’m going to try with all my might, Pat. I 
feel better now, and I am going down to the creek to 
bathe my eyes, for I would not want Mother to see I 
had been crying, for anything. I want to be very 
brave when I talk about it to her.” 

“Bless her! and be shure yez do, fer the blow will 
go hard wid the dear lady, Oi ’m afther thinkin’.” 

“Yes, I know it will; and that is the reason I must 
never cry again, no matter how I feel, and never let 
her know of that awful pain here, when I think of leav- 
ing Beechwood, for that would make her feel worse. I 
want to try to get used to it before we talk about it 
together. ” 

“ Indade, it would make her feel worse if she knew 
av the pain; and Oi ’m shure yez are goin’ to be a 
little soldier in the mather, an Oi will try to be a big 
wan from this minit on.” 

“And then it will be just like two soldiers fighting 
in a great battle, won’t it?” said Paul, while he 
laughed through the tears, and so did Pat. 

“Indade it will, me bye, a great battle indade;” 
but Pat shook his head nevertheless, as though in 
doubt of himself, at least, being equal to the fight. 
“Oi must be afther workin’ now, me bye, fer this 
patch must be finished afore night. Oi belave me 
soul Oi ’m gettin’ so ould and sthiff in the jints, when 


The Story of a Little Poet 53 

once down, Oi can’t git meself oop agin,” said Pat, as 
with grunts and groans he tried to rise from the ground. 

‘‘Take hold of this,” said Paul, handing him the 
spade, then taking his arm. “ I get that way myself 
sometimes when I sit for a long time in one place. 
It isn’t because you are old, Pat; people often get 
stiff in their joints when they are even children.” 

“Mebby so, mebby so,” said Pat, as he finally stood 
up and stretched out his old bent body. 

Paul always had a horror of thinking any one was 
old, just because a bent back, white hair, and a totter- 
ing step always appealed so intensely to his sympathies, 
and made him think they must be suffering. 

“You must not feel too sad to sing now, while 
you are at work, Pat. You know you always do; and 
if I did n’t hear you any more, I would know you had 
stopped being a soldier, and that would make me feel 
badly. I like to hear your old Tu ra turn tay song. 
If you sang anything else, it would seem so queer, and 
would not suit you.” 

“It’s hard to sing whin wan’s heart is heavy, me 
bye; but Oi ’ll be afther doin’ me best to kape up a 
brave heart wid yerself.” And there and then he com- 
menced to sing the only song he ever sung, if you 
could call it such, as he resumed shovelling the soil 
in the flower-bed; while Paul walked off toward the 
creek. 

“ Tu ra turn tay, tu ray turn tay, tu ra turn tay, turn tee, 
Oh, roly ra laly ro la lum, Oh, roly ra laly lum lay.” 

He peeped out from under the rim of his old straw 
hat occasionally, to watch the little figure until he was 
out of sight, and he knew beyond hearing; then he 
ceased singing, for his heart was too heavy to continue. 


54 The Story of a Little Poet 

“The partin’ wid thot child will be the worst av it 
all, Oi belave,” he thought. “And a brave little mon 
he is, to be shure, whin he tried to cheer poor me, 
and to kape oop fer his mother, wid his own heart 
ready to break. An awful day this fer the boss and 
meself, and all the rist; and shure it ’s hard to think 
av the indin’ av it all.” 

Paul made straight for the creek, and, dipping his 
handkerchief in its cool waters, he tried to wipe away 
all traces of tears. It was so sudden, so strange, this 
dreadful news; he was afraid he could never get used 
to it sufficiently to talk to any one about it without 
giving way, as he did on Pat’s shoulder. He had often 
imagined a great many things, for he was an imagina- 
tive child, but never in his whole life had he imagined 
such a thing as this coming to pass; for what child 
would ever think of being forced to leave a home that 
had not only been his father’s, but his grandfather’s, 
and even his great-grandfather’s. Even yet he thought 
there must be some mistake. How well he knew the 
whole history of dear old Beechwood. How his great- 
grandfather bought the grounds in the first place, then 
built the house, and improved and added to it every 
year. How he planted all the trees up the wide drive 
that now were tall and stately, their branches spread- 
ing out until they met, all the way from the lodge to 
the house, making one long, winding, bower-like drive. 
The money he had spent hewing down dead trees and 
clearing out brushwood until it came down to his 
grandfather’s care, who took the same pride in it his 
father had, continuing improvements, until it seemed 
that there was nothing left that could be done to add 
to its beauty. In Paul’s time it was considered the 


The Story of a Little Poet 55 

handsomest house, and the grounds the most beautiful, 
of any private residence in that part of the country. 

What had been in his grandfather’s time a rough, 
narrow, wild road along the front of the place, with 
not a house in sight for more than a mile, was now a 
beautiful broad drive, called Linden Road, with hand- 
some residences all along for miles. In his grand- 
father’s time it took over an hour to get to the city, 
but now only a half-hour. New railroads had been 
built, and fast trains were run often, increasing the 
value of the property, so that now the Beechwood 
grounds were worth a small fortune. 

All these things Paul had often heard, and his 
pride in Beechwood was as great as that of his fore- 
fathers. 

On the left, the grounds were divided from those 
belonging to the Parsonage by a creek; that part was 
left in its natural beauty, for no human skill could 
there improve what nature had done. So was it any 
wonder that little Paul thought there must be some 
mistake, after all, as he sat on a stone by the creek 
with his hands clasped and his eyes blinking rapidly? 
He thought over all that Aleck had said, and tried to 
remember the exact words. “ Perhaps, after all, I did 
not hear right; but yes, I did too,” he finally con- 
cluded, “for Pat heard the same, and Aleck said it 
was in the papers, so it must be true, it must be true,” 
he murmured, and he gazed about him wistfully at all 
the familiar spots he loved so well. Pat was right: he 
did love every blade of grass that grew in the Beech- 
wood grounds. 

“Dear old Beechwood! I can’t give you up, indeed, 
I can’t,” he thought, while the tears started afresh; 


56 The Story of a Little Poet 

but quick as a flash he brushed them away, and jumped 
up from the stone at the same time. “ I will not cry,” 
he thought, swallowing a big sob. “ I forgot I must 
not think about it so much. I will try to think of 
something else, then I will slowly get used to it. I 
will go sit in the flower-garden for a while, for I love 
to be among the flowers when I am sad ; they always 
make me feel better. I do wish I could go talk to 
Mother; but I can’t now, I could never show her how 
brave I could be. I know I would cry; but when I 
get used to it, then I can talk to her and never cry a 
tear.” And so he thought, this little philosopher, as 
he slowly walked over the lawns and through shady 
walks until he came to the flower-garden, where he 
sat down on a rustic bench to try to get used to the 
dreadful news that was almost breaking his heart. 

He had been seated only a few moments, when he 
heard the voice of his little sister Grace calling him, 
“ Bruver Paul, Bruver Paul, where are you ? ” 

He answered with the old familiar whistle Grace 
knew so well, and in less than a minute she was by 
his side on the bench. “ I toodent find you any pace,” 
she said, panting; “ I was yunning all ayound and 
ayound.” 

“ Were you, Robin ? ” 

“ ’Es, I was, and I ’m awsul tired now.” 

“You will soon get rested if you sit here for a 
while; for I think this is a very restful place,” said 
Paul, in his old-fashioned way, speaking very seri- 
ously, and drawing a long sigh. 

He always called Grace Robin from the day she was 
born. He remembered when he first saw her, — such 
a wee, plump little thing, with soft brown ringlets 































• 


















































* 










































* 



















The Story of a Little Poet 57 

over her head, and big brown eyes, which looked right 
into his as the nurse held her for his inspection. 
“Why, she looks just like a little robin,” he said, 
after a long gaze. “ Her cheeks are so soft and 
smooth, just like the breast of a robin;” and while 
he spoke, he smoothed softly the wee cheeks. “ And 
this,” he continued, touching the little brown ringlets, 
“is like the robin’s back, brown and feathery.” 

The nurse was not able to stretch her imagination 
so as to be able to see any resemblance between the 
two, but she smiled at the little earnest face, and said, 
“ Do you think so? ” 

Several times that day he went to the door to ask 
how little Robin was; and when she was old enough to 
join the family circle in the library, she was still little 
Robin to Paul, and had been ever since. 

These two were great chums and understood one 
another perfectly, though baby Grace was but three 
years of age. They were better companions than Paul 
and Roy, who was a younger brother, just past seven. 

There was a bond of sympathy between Paul and 
Grace that did not exist between the two boys. 

Grace loved to hear the little verses Paul wrote 
about the flowers, trees, bees, and birds. Many of 
them she knew by heart. All that Paul said or did 
was absolutely right in her estimation, and she looked 
up to him as to her guardian angel. 

“I fink you look tired too, Bruver Paul,” she said, 
noting immediately his serious face and tone of voice. 

Paul smiled, but said nothing. An idea was coming 
in his head. Why not tell Grace about the news? It 
would save his mother the trouble, and perhaps help 
him to get used to it if he practised talking to her; 


58 The Story of a Little Poet 

and he could help Grace get used to it, so that when 
she heard it from her mother she could be brave too, 
and not shed a tear. 

Baby Grace soon saw he was not in any humor for 
talking; she knew what that far-away, dreamy expres- 
sion meant, — “that Bruver Paul was busy wiv a 
dreat big thought, and did n’t want to be disturved 
[disturbed].” 

That was what she always said when she saw him in 
one of those thinking moods, and she would not bother 
him with questions at such times ; for he did not like 
it, and that fact was sufficient reason for her to keep 
quiet. 

With a little sigh she leaned back and slipped her 
hand quietly in his, watching his face closely for the 
first indication that would tell her he was returning 
from dreamland. The scene would have been a beau- 
tiful subject for an artist. The children were hand in 
hand, seated on the rustic seat among the flowers, with 
Nero, the large Newfoundland dog, at their feet. 

Paul was dressed in a white blouse, with deep collar 
and cuffs of embroidery, brown velvet knickerbockers, 
and black stockings and pumps. His hair hung in 
loose curls, light and fluffy, with just a tinge of gold. 
His skin was clear and white, with a flush now in his 
cheeks, caused by the emotions of the past hour. 

He was gazing dreamily away over the flowers and 
through the trees, apparently unconscious at the mo- 
ment of Grace’s presence; while she, in her dainty 
thin white dress, with pale blue ribbons, short white 
stockings, black slippers, and brown curls, just the 
hue of the chestnut, encircling her sweet baby face, 
had a very wistful expression in her great dark eyes. 


The Story of a Little Poet 59 

Yes, he thought it would certainly be a good plan, 
and with his mind satisfied on that point, he turned 
his head at last and looked in Grace’s face question- 
ingly, wondering if she would feel very sad about it, 
because he would not want her to feel just as he had 
felt when he first heard the dreadful news. He finally 
concluded it would be impossible for her to feel just 
exactly as he did, for she was so much younger. 

Grace’s face lit up with a smile when he turned, 
and she asked, “Was that a dreat big sad one, Bruver 
Paul ? ” edging up quite close to him, while he affec- 
tionately placed his arm around her. 

“Yes, Robin, the saddest I have had in all my life,” 
and Paul sighed and hesitated to begin. 

Her smile changed into a serious expression at 
Paul’s tone and words. 

She waited a minute, still he did not speak; then 
she said, “Won’t you tell me? ’tause I ’se ’ike to hear 
all Bruver Paul’s dreat big sad thoughts.” 

“ I know you do, Robin, but this is such a dreadful 
one. I think it must be one of those big black clouds 
coming in my life that Dr. Andrews spoke about in 
his sermon one Sunday. Everybody must meet one or 
more of these dark clouds sometime in their lives; 
they may be very small, he said, so that we would not 
mind them much, and then again they may be so large 
and dark that it is all black everywhere we look, and 
we can’t see even a ray of light, no matter which way 
we turn.” 

“Ten a dreat big cloud be ’ike a dreat big sad 
thought ? ” asked Grace, with wide-open eyes. 

“Yes, Robin, it can. I have been thinking all 
about it, and now I know this is just what Dr. 


6o 


The Story of a Little Poet 

Andrews meant ; for it seems like a big dark cloud all 
around me, and I am in darkness.” 

How very dreadful all this sounded to baby Grace; 
she looked all about her, but saw no signs of darkness. 
She was beginning to understand her brother’s way of 
talking, and knew there were often deeper and differ- 
ent meanings to many things he said than she was at 
first able to see, so she knit her brows and wondered 
just how a big black cloud could be like a "dreat” 
big sad thought. 

"If you will promise not to say anything about it, 
and that you will try not to feel very sad, I will tell 
you,” said Paul. 

"’Es, I will promise.” 

"Well, then, come close and listen. I will whisper 
so that no one will hear. How would you like to 
leave Beechwood and never come back to it again ? ” 

"To leave Beechwood and never turn back adain ? 
and toodent I see dear murver and farver, or Roy, or 
my bruver Paul adain eider?” and Grace threw her 
arms around his neck as she spoke, thinking his 
thought was indeed more dreadful than anything she 
ever imagined. 

"Oh, no, I do not mean to leave all of us, Robin,” 
he said encouragingly. " I mean, suppose we all had 
to move away from Beechwood to a little bit of a home, 
maybe a great way off.” 

"Wood air be any birds and fowers ever so far 
away ? ” 

“ Oh, yes, of course there are always flowers in the 
country, you know, and trees and birds; and it will be 
in the country, because Father always said he would 
never bring up little children in a big dusty city.” 


The Story of a Little Poet 61 

“Well, ’en, ’at would be a dreat big sad thought in 
my head ’ike yours, bruver Paul, if I toodent see 
Beechwood never adain,” and tears filled her eyes, 
while she still clung to Paul, looking up in his face 
through them, as though searching for a ray of light 
to solve this great mystery. 

Paul came very near crying too when he saw the 
tears, but with a great effort he managed to control 
himself, while he tried to comfort her. 

“You can cry a little bit, Robin,’’ he said, holding 
her tightly against him and patting her, as Pat had 
done to him shortly before. “ It makes people feel 
better to cry when they have great trouble.” 

“ ’En I fink you ought to cry jes’ a little bit too, 
Bruver Paul.” 

“Oh, no, I guess I had better not now,” he said, 
quite bravely. “Maybe some time I will,” and he 
wiped the tears from Grace’s face as he spoke, swal- 
lowing a lump that seemed very hard to get rid of. 

“You see that is what I mean by a big cloud in my 
life, Robin. Did n’t it make you feel as if everything 
was black when you first heard it ? ” 

“ ’Es, it did ; ” and now the meaning of Paul’s com- 
parison suddenly dawned upon her, and she smiled 
through the tears, her face brightening up with the 
pleasing thought of being able to comprehend the full 
meaning of the little sermon. 

“Oh, ’es, now I unnerstan’, Bruver Paul,” she said. 
“To doe away from Beechwood is des ’ike it was all 
black, ’tause we are so worried and sorry to leave it, 
isn’t it?” 

“Yes, that is it. We are just so worried we can’t 
think of anything else; but we must, Robin, mustn’t 


62 


The Story of* a Little Poet 

we? Because — because there is light somewhere if 
we will only look for it. Dr. Andrews said so; and 
no matter how dark the clouds are, if we try to hunt 
for the light, we can always find it, and get out of the 
darkness.” 

“ I will doe wiv you, if you will take me out, Bruver 
Paul.” 

“ Of course you will, and I am going to get out of 
this as quick as I can; because, Robin,” and here he 
lowered his voice (for he had forgotten to keep it low), 
“ we both must be brave when we talk to Mother about 
it, and we must not cry a single tear, and then that 
will be something to make her glad, even if she would 
be sad about leaving Beechwood. ” 

“ ’Es, it would,” said Grace, who had now ceased cry- 
ing and was much interested in all Paul was saying. 

“But remember, Robin, don’t say anything about it 
first to Mother. We are getting stronger all the time, 
you know, but I don’t think we are quite strong 
enough yet to talk about it to her.” 

“’Es, I will ’member. I will jes teep as still as a 
mouse about it.” 

“No matter where we go, Robin, we will have a 
good time; and even if there is only a little patch of 
ground, I can make a garden out of it. I will plant it 
full of flowers, and you can help me take care of them, 
for you see we won’t have Pat or Thomas any more if 
Beechwood is sold.” 

“Why tan’t we have Thomas or Pat any more? ” she 
asked, perplexed. 

“Because, don’t you see, Father has failed, and lost 
lots and lots of money, and has n’t enough left to pay 
them. A big money panic made him fail, Aleck said, 


The Story of a Little Poet 63 

and some merchants owed him money too and could 
not pay him, so he has to sell Beechwood to get some.” 

“Don’t you fink ’ey must be awsul bad men to do 
’at to our farver? ” 

“I don’t think they could help it on account of the 
panic, Robin.” 

“What tan a pantic be ’ike, Bruver Paul? ” 

At this question Paul drew a long breath. How 
could he explain, if he did not know himself? but it 
would never do to acknowledge his ignorance to Grace, 
so he tried to make some attempt at an explanation. 
“A panic,” he began slowly, “is a dreadful thing; 
everything gets panicky, you know, gets all in a muss, 
kinder topsy-turvy, and ” — A loud shout rent the 
air not far off, and Paul stopped short, very glad to be 
interrupted at a point where he felt he could go no 
further. 


CHAPTER VI 


“TTURRAH! Hurrah!” shouts a young boyish 
A voice; then “ r-r-r-rum a turn turn, r-r-r-r-rum 
a turn turn, r-r-rum a turn turn.” 

Nero, who had been lying quietly on the grass, now 
and then lifting up his head for a kind word or stroke 
from the two occupants on the bench during this very 
serious conversation, now jumped up and bounded 
away in the direction of the drum, while Paul and 
Grace sat quietly waiting the appearance of the little 
drummer. Now they hear, “ Shoulder arms! ’Bout 
face ! Forward, march ! ” Nearer and nearer he comes, 
and in less than a minute Roy emerged from the trees 
and bushes, with Nero bounding at his heels. 

Paul and Grace were both shocked at the spectacle 
he presented, for it had not been very long before that 
he had been dressed neatly for the afternoon; but 
they had not an opportunity to express their surprise 
in words, for Roy bounded before them in a great 
state of excitement, waving his hat when he saw them, 
and yelling at the top of his voice, “ Hoorah for the 
Knights of Pityus [Pythias] ! Hurrah for the Knights 
of Pityus ! ” Then he gasped, “ Oh, Perseffer, do you 
know that I ’m going to be a knight when I ’m a 
man?” He always called Paul Perseffer, meaning 
professor, ever since the time Paul was obliged to 
wear glasses when reading, on account of a muscular 















The Story of a Little Poet 65 

weakness. It was a funny sight indeed to Roy to see 
Paul in spectacles, and when his father laughingly 
called him professor, that capped the climax, and Roy 
burst forth in one of his merry peals of laughter, and 
from that moment always called him Perseffer, and 
sometimes Persef for short. 

It was not surprising that he did not pronounce the 
word correctly, for he never got anything right, and 
caused a great deal of amusement constantly by his 
mispronunciations and the jumbled-up manner in which 
he would describe things. 

“ Oh ! I ’ve had the jolliest picnic a feller ever had,” 
he continued, throwing himself down on the grass 
before them. “ I ’ve been down in the field where the 
Knights of Pityus are camping. The captain said 
they would be there a whole week. He is a fine man, 
Persef; he taught me how to drill and salute, and said 
I would make a first-class captain. You ought to see 
them drill; it is fine, I tell you. They walk just as 
straight as sticks, and they all step out just erzackly 
at the same second; the drums beat, and this is how 
they go; ” and forgetting how tired he was, he jumped 
up again, and marched up and down before the audi- 
ence on the bench, Nero making way for him and stand- 
ing up close to Grace’s side by the rustic seat. 

Back and forth, straight as a major-general, “For- 
ward, march! Halt! Shoulder arms ! ” 

His face was flushed and wet with perspiration, 
covered with black streaks where with his soiled hands 
he had wiped off the beads as they gathered on his 
forehead and ran down his cheeks. His light curls 
were blown about his head and face in wildest dis- 
order. His white duck sailor suit was covered with 

5 


66 


The Story of a Little Poet 

dust and stains. One stocking hung over his shoe, 
displaying a long scratch, from which little drops of 
blood oozed, and, mixed with dirt, ran down his leg. 

Baby Grace was very much concerned about this, 
and as soon as Roy stopped to take breath, she said, 
“Won’t you doe up to Murver and tell her to put a 
claster [plaster] on your sore? Did you do it while 
you were marching wiv er soldiers? ” 

“No-o-o,” drawled Roy, looking down at the scratch 
with utter indifference, “ I cut that on a stone in the 
road when I was running home. That’s nothing; 
Knights of Pityus don’t mind a little thing like that. 
Why, sometimes they have their legs taken right off 
and don’t mind it much; they get used to it, — brave 
ones do; and if I go to war and have mine shot off, 
I will have a nice wooden one made, then everybody 
will say as I go limping along, ‘ There goes a brave 
man; he gave his leg for his country.’” 

“ I did not know there was anybody camping near 
Beechwood,” said Paul. 

“ I know you did n’t, because they just came. I was 
helping them put up their tents. The captain said I 
could come down and see them whenever I wanted to ; 
he gave me a sandbridge [sandwich] before I came 
away and told me I had better run home and come 
back to-night, ’cause he had some very importment 
[important] business to attend to. Oh, won’t it be 
fun to see them drill to-night! You can go, Perseffer, 
and you too, Grace. My! but I’m glad I am alive 
to-day.” 

Just then Mrs. Arlington made her appearance. 
“Why, my dear boy,” she exclaimed, “what have you 
been doing with yourself to get soiled in that man- 


The Story of a Little Poet 67 

ner? ” for she was shocked at the sight Roy presented, 
as Paul and Grace had been. 

Roy looked down on his soiled clothes, rather ashamed 
of his appearance and of giving his mother so much 
trouble; for it seemed a hopeless task to teach him to 
keep himself clean even for a short time. 

“I’m awful sorry, Mother, but indeed I couldn’t 
help it this time.” 

“That is your excuse every time,” said his mother, 
seating herself between Paul and Grace on the garden- 
bench. “ You are so heedless and never stop to think. 
You rush pell-mell into everything, no matter whether 
you are dressed in a condition for it or not. I saw 
you running over the fields and climbing fences with 
your drum from my window, and thought you had 
rushed off to see the Knights of Pythias setting up 
their tents in the field beyond. How did you know 
they were there?” 

“I’ll tell you just how it all was, Mother,” said 
Roy, straightening himself up before her in readiness 
for a long explanation, while his mother tried her best 
to keep a straight face, which was a very difficult thing 
to do, so comical did he look, with his face full of 
smears, a paper soldier-hat the captain had made him 
stuck on one side of his head with a chicken feather 
bobbing out the top. 

“I was standing down by the barn,” he went on, 
“and I heard a drum. I climbed a tree and saw a 
lot of soldiers down in the field; then I ran to the 
house for my drum, and then climbed over the fences 
to get there soon. I stood right by the banders when 
I got there, and the music was fine. I think the noise 
would put the Perseffer in the Insamasilun [Insane 


68 The Story of a Little Poet 

Asylum] if he was there; but I love it, and stood right 
near the horners. The captain was a jolly man; he 
carried me around on his shoulder, and gave me ’fresh- 
ments to eat. I didn’t know I was going to get my 
clothes soiled, but it was awful hot out in the sun, and 
I got full of purspration [perspiration] ; then I fell 
down on a stone in the road and cut my leg, but it was 
only a voidable axdent [unavoidable accident], indeed 
it was, Mother. Oh ! I forgot to tell you, Persef ” (he 
continued, without stopping), “about the funny old 
dog the captain has, that shakes hands with his hind 
paw. You just say, ‘ Gyp, shake hands,’ and he puts 
his paw right in your hand just as polite as a human 
being. Oh, my, but I had fun ! and I ’m going down 
to-night, Mother, to see them drill; the captain gave 
me an imitation [invitation].” 

“ I am afraid I shall be obliged to deprive you of that 
pleasure, Roy,” said his mother. “You have been 
very thoughtless and careless after being dressed for 
the afternoon. You know I do not care what you do 
when you have on your romping clothes; but when 
you are dressed for the afternoon, I do like to see you 
keep yourself clean enough, at least, to be presentable 
when your father returns. Now your clothes will all 
have to be changed, and it is rather late in the day for 
another fresh outfit. What would your father say to 
see you come to the table in such a condition ? and it 
is nearly time for him now.” 

“Oh, please don’t say I can’t go to the drill! I 
will go without any supper for a punishment; won’t 
that do? And I will promise to try ever so hard to 
think about my clothes.” 

“’Es, he will be dood next time, Murver,” pleaded 
Grace. 


The Story of a Little Poet 69 

“Oh, yes, please let him go! You see it is just 
because he heard the music and forgot. I often get 
thinking about something myself and forget every- 
thing else but that one thing; just like the day when 
I found Moll and the organ-grinder, so do let him go 
this time.” So spoke the little philosopher. 

“Well, I shall have to think about it,” said Mrs. 
Arlington. “But go right up to the house now, Roy,” 
she continued, “and tell Hulda to wash and dress you.” 

Mrs. Arlington was only twenty-nine, and fair like 
Paul and Roy. Grace had the brown hair and eyes 
of her father. Paul watched his mother’s face very 
closely to see if he could discover there any indication 
of the great sorrow that she must know about. Her 
face, however, showed no trace of it as far as he was 
able to see, and he thought how wonderful it was for 
her to be able to hide it so well, and be so bright and 
cheerful. Why couldn’t he do the same? He won- 
dered when she would speak to him about it; perhaps 
now, any moment in fact, and he trembled every time 
she spoke, thinking it was coming, and he would not, 
very likely, be able to control himself. 

“ Have you been sitting here very long? ” she asked, 
after Roy had left. 

“About an hour,” replied Paul. 

“ I found Bruver Paul here all by his own sef, fink- 
ing one of his dreat big thoughts,” said Grace, giving 
him a knowing look as she spoke; but Paul quickly 
responded with a frown, and Grace understood that it 
meant she should not have said even that much, and to 
remember her promise about that conversation. 

“Was it such a great big one this time? ” asked his 
mother, laughing. 


jo The Story of a Little Poet 

Oh, why had Grace said that ? how was he to escape 
if she insisted on knowing what it was? and he felt 
the right time had not come yet, for him at least. 

He hesitated a minute, not knowing what answer to 
make, while Mrs. Arlington looked down in his face, 
thinking that they both appeared unusually quiet and 
serious. 

‘‘Oh, yes, it was a pretty large one,” he tried to say 
indifferently. 

“You dear little philosopher, if you don’t soon stop 
all these big thoughts, you will never live to be a 
man,” she said, still smiling. “ You must cease worry- 
ing about things you cannot understand ; it tires your 
little brain and makes you nervous and thin.” 

“I do try to stop thinking, and to get strong like 
Roy; but sometimes things stick in my head, and I 
can’t get them out until I think them out.” 

“ Well, you must keep on trying, my boy. Romp 
and play just as much as you can, and if you find they 
won’t leave you, come tell them to me, and I think I 
can soon make things clear.” 

“I always do tell you, Mother; I mean nearly al- 
ways,” remembering he had not gone to her with this 
last trouble. “ Sometimes you don’t happen to be near 
me; then I try to think it out myself.” 

Fortunately for Paul, she asked no further questions 
about this particular thought, but, changing the sub- 
ject, said, “ I see you have forgotten to cut the flowers 
to-day, and that I am sure is a much pleasanter occu- 
pation than sitting here thinking.” 

“I did forget them to-day,” replied Paul. “I will 
go get the scissors, and we will cut them now.” Grace 
held up her dress to catch the roses, while his mother 


The Story of a Little Poet 71 

and he clipped them from the laden bushes and threw 
them into it. 

Once Mrs. Arlington stepped over to an arbor to 
cut some clematis; then Paul whispered to Grace, 
“ Be careful now, Robin, and don’t say a word. 
Mother does not want to talk about it yet either, and 
I am not quite ready. Now you won’t say a word, 
will you?” 

“ I will try awsul hard not to breve a sinle word,” 
replied Grace, emphasizing every word, and looking as 
serious as a little judge. 

In a few moments all three were busily engaged in 
arranging the flowers in vases for the different rooms 
and the table. That evening Paul did not have much 
to say at the table ; he could not have found an oppor- 
tunity if he had, for Roy monopolized the conversa- 
tion, telling his father of all his experiences of the 
afternoon, and was just as excited over the Knights of 
Pythias as he was when he first returned from the field. 

His father laughed again and again at his jolly re- 
marks, though Paul thought he did occasionally look 
sad; in fact, he noticed for the first time that his face 
looked quite thin and haggard, and he wished he could 
be like Roy and say funny things to make him laugh. 

While he was busily engaged with these thoughts, 
he was suddenly aroused by his mother, saying, “What 
do you see in the carafe, Paul, fairies? to spirit your 
thoughts away from us all, and your appetite ? ” for he 
had been gazing into the cut-glass bottle before him 
for five minutes with a far-off, dreamy look in his eyes. 

“Oh! I was only thinking, that was all,” he said 
carelessly, taking up his fork and beginning to eat, 
giving a suspicious glance toward his father. 


72 The Story of a Little Poet 

“Well, suppose you stop thinking for a time, and 
tell me what you have been doing with yourself 
to-day,” said his father. “Roy has given an account 
of himself, and now it is your turn, then Grace’s.” 

“Oh, I have been doing lots of things,” began Paul, 
fairly trembling inwardly as he tried to think of all 
that happened before he heard that dreadful news in 
the summer-house. 

“I took a drive this morning with Roy and Grace; 
then we went down by the creek to hunt for insects, 
and — ” 

“ Yes, and I killed them while the Perseffer hunted,” 
interrupted Roy. “ He hunts them every day for his 
klection, and studies about them in his insect book; 
but he is afraid to kill them, and you know somebody 
has to do it, for he could n’t put them in his klection 
alive. I just give them a whack, and they wiggle a 
minute, then die.” 

“No, I am not afraid,” spoke up Paul; “I only 
don’t like to think of a little insect suffering, even if 
it is only a fly. I told Roy to wait until we got the 
chloroform, you know, you gave me to kill them with; 
but when I went off to hunt, he would take them out 
of the box and kill them.” 

“ Roy sed he better not wait for er coalafone, ’tause 
some of ’em ’at had wings might fly away, and some 
’at had feet might yun away,” said baby Grace. 

“ And could my little pet look at them being killed ? ” 
asked Mr. Arlington. 

“I toodent hardly,” replied baby Grace, “but Roy 
say ’at ’ey don’t know anyfing when ’ey get a knock.” 

“ Perhaps they do not know very much after one of 
Roy’s knocks,” said Mr. Arlington. “But I am 


The Story of a Little Poet 73 

grieved that he would take pleasure in destroying life 
or giving pain to the smallest insect.” 

This remark made Roy feel ashamed of himself. 

“ I thought a knock would kill them as quick as 
chloforn,” he said. 

“ It may kill them as quick, but it is barbarous to 
destroy them in the way you often do, Roy. When 
they inhale chloroform they suffer no pain, and it is 
just like going off quietly to sleep; besides, when you 
smash them you spoil them for a collection, and I 
know that Paul would not just for the sport kill any 
insect or watch its dying struggles.” 

“No, I would n’t,” said Paul. “But then Roy did 
not think they suffered, or he would not kill them the 
way he does.” 

“No, he didn’t think: there is just where the 
trouble is; he never does think, and you think all the 
time,” said Mrs. Arlington, laughing. “Now if you 
could only loan Roy your thinking cap, and you go 
without occasionally, the exchange would be very bene- 
ficial to you both.” 

“You are right, little mother. I wish it were pos- 
sible for such an exchange to take place,” said Mr. 
Arlington. “I thought that you had ceased worrying 
your little brain about subjects that were too deep for 
you ? ” he continued, addressing Paul. 

“I don’t think about the deep ones,” said Paul; 
“but you know there are some not very deep, but still 
you have to think them out.” 

“Well, only don’t worry and be too serious; for 
you know, ‘ All work and no play makes Jack a dull 
boy,’ ” and Mr. Arlington laid his hand on Paul’s head 
as he arose from the table. “You ought to be the 


74 The Story of a Little Poet 

happiest boy in the whole world,” he continued, “for 
surely you have had everything to make you so; and I 
want to see you light-hearted and strong, so that when 
the real sorrows come in life, you will at least be 
physically equal to them.” 

These last words were spoken very sad and low, it 
seemed to Paul. He sat quietly and never uttered a 
word as his father walked away. 

He felt a strong inclination to run after him, and 
throw his arms around him, and tell him he was equal 
to sorrows even now; that he knew all about his busi- 
ness trouble and dear old Beechwood going to be sold, 
and that he was going to be very brave about it ; but 
notwithstanding all these resolutions that awful lump 
would rise in his throat when he thought of speaking 
about it, and it required such an effort to keep it down, 
he could do or say nothing, but sit quite still, until he 
conquered it. 

In a little while he was walking down the road with 
his father, mother, and Grace, toward the field where 
the Knights of Pythias were camping. 

“ I suppose Roy has run on ahead,” said Mrs. Arling- 
ton. “I don’t see a sign of him anywhere.” 

“I fink he went to hunt his drum,” said Grace, 
“ ’tause he sed he toodent find it wherever he looked.” 
Sure enough, that was just what had delayed him, and 
also hunting up an old discarded soldier outfit he 
knew had been thrown up in the garret. 

He really meant to keep his word when he promised 
so solemnly in the afternoon to keep himself clean, 
but, as usual, it escaped his mind entirely; only one 
thought stayed in his head, — to deck himself like a 
real soldier and quickly join the Knights in the field, 


The Story of a Little Poet 75 

He#rummaged through everything for all the different 
pieces of the outfit, moving boxes and bundles out of 
the way with the strength of a young Hercules. 
Everything, of course, was more or less dusty, and by 
the time he had found the whole outfit, and put it on, 
his face, hands, and clothes were covered with dust. 

R-r-r-r-rum-m-m a turn turn, r-r-rum-m-m-m a turn 
turn. Here he comes on a run, drumming all the time, 
and fearing his delay might cause him to miss the 
drill. His mother raised her eyes in astonishment 
when she saw him in the old tattered outfit, covered 
with dust. The cap was torn, and a piece of the gilt 
cord hung down over the side of his head. The army 
blue jacket was soiled, and worn to the lining in some 
places. The epaulettes were all out of shape, and the 
tarnished gilt fringe hung half off. A battered leather 
knapsack was strapped on his back, and an old leather 
belt was tied together with a piece of clothes-line, from 
which dangled at his side an old bent toy sword. 

They all stopped and waited for him ; but when he 
approached, he never halted, simply raised his hand to 
his hat, saluted as the captain had taught him, and 
passed right on, making for the camp as quickly as 
possible. 

So amused was his father, he just stood still and 
laughed until the tears came to his eyes; in fact, they 
all laughed, even Mrs. Arlington; she could not help it, 
notwithstanding his broken promise. She said nothing 
about it, however, and made no effort to detain him. 

A number of people had already gathered around the 
field from the neighboring residences, and all were 
more interested in little Roy Arlington than they 
were in the Knights, when they saw him coming in 


76 The Story of a Little Poet 

his soldier rig, and were still more interested and 
amused, fairly shouting with laughter, when he stood 
near them during the drill and imitated them in every 
move they made, using his tin sword as they did 
theirs, coming in a few seconds behind, in all the 
moves of the drill. 

It never occurred to him that he was the centre of 
attraction, and that all the laughing was at his expense. 

After the drill he walked straight up to the captain, 
and said, “Don’t you think I will make a good Knight 
of Pityus ? ” 

The captain laughed as he looked down in the 
roguish face upturned to his, besmeared with dust, 
and the soiled and dilapidated outfit, and said, “ In- 
deed, my little fellow, I do think you will make a 
first class Knight of Pity us,” at which every one 
laughed who was near enough to hear. 

“ He looks like a soldier who has gone through the 
war and fought in the fiercest battle,” said Mr. Arling- 
ton, while they all continued to laugh at him and 
watch his every movement, 

Paul had been standing on a rail of a fence to get a 
good view of the drill, and baby Grace was perched 
high up on a post, supported by her father, and, like 
all the rest of the people, were more interested in Roy 
than the Knights. Paul forgot for the time all his 
troubles of the afternoon, and laughed and clapped his 
hands as enthusiastically as any one; and all wore 
smiling faces on their return home, with Roy in the 
lead, his shoulders thrown back, and keeping time with 
the beat of the drum as he marched proudly along, 
Nero stepping out majestically beside him as though 
very proud of his young master that day. 


CHAPTER VII 


I T was all too true ; there was no mistake about it what- 
ever. Mr. Arlington had failed, and it was now the 
principal topic of conversation in Arlington Heights. 
The place was named after the Arlingtons, they being 
the first family that lived there, and in Paul’s great-grand- 
father’s time, the largest landholders. Great sympathy 
was expressed for Mr. Arlington on all sides, and many 
kind friends offered him all the assistance necessary to 
enable him to continue the business of manufacturing 
woollen goods which he had carried on extensively for 
some years. But the outlook in the business world 
generally was then very discouraging, and, being in poor 
health, he could not be persuaded to take upon his 
shoulders fresh responsibilities and risks. He had al- 
ready a position offered him in the West by a friend 
he had once helped through some business difficulties, 
and he finally decided to accept this offer as soon as 
possible. 

Yes, Beechwood must be sold, and perhaps never again 
would the Arlington children romp in the dear old 
grounds. 

Mrs. Arlington never imagined what Paul’s big thought 
was, the afternoon she found him and Grace on the bench 
in the flower-garden. It never occurred to her that he 
had already learned of the great sorrow that had befallen 
them. For weeks she had known of its coming, but had 


7 8 The Story of a Little Poet 

postponed telling Paul as long as possible, knowing what 
a blow it would be to him. She could delay it no longer 
now, for the papers had published it, and he might very 
likely hear of it at any time. It was a sad duty, but she 
wanted to be the one first to acquaint him with their new 
plans. 

“Will you sit with me a while this morning?” she 
called after him, as she saw him about to leave the house 
the day following their visit to the Knights of Pythias. 

“Now it is coming,” thought Paul, but he made a 
mighty effort to brace up and be in readiness. It must 
come some time, he thought, and he would be greatly 
relieved when it was over, after all. 

“ Yes, I will come with you, Mother,” he said, turning 
back and following her up the stairs. 

“ I have a piece of sewing that must be finished to- 
day,” she said, “ and afterward you and I will take a drive 
over to Glenwood to see Moll.” 

“I would like that ever so much,” he said, but he was 
thinking of something much more important just then. 

Mrs. Arlington seated herself by an open window, 
while Paul stood by her and gazed out over the beauti- 
ful grounds of Beechwood in a dreamy way, and his 
mother wondered what had come over him, he was un- 
usually quiet and thoughtful. And then for the first time 
she thought could it be possible he had heard ! but, no, 
that could not be, she decided, for the first thing he 
would have done would have been to come to her. 

“ What are you thinking about?” she asked, keeping 
right on with her sewing. 

“ Oh, I was just thinking about Beechwood,” he replied 
carelessly, still keeping his eyes on the beautiful scene 
that lay stretched out before him. 


The Story of a Little Poet 79 

“ It looks very beautiful this morning after the rain in 
the night, don’t you think so, Mother? The grass is 
so green and fresh ; and look at the creek how full it is. 
You can see the water dashing up against the stones 
through that space in the trees, and how it sparkles 
where the sun strikes it.” 

Mrs. Arlington lifted her eyes for a moment and fol- 
lowed the direction of Paul’s gaze. “ It is beautiful, 
Paul,” she said. “ I do not think that I ever saw it look 
more charming.” 

Just below were the green terraced lawns like velvet 
laid in folds; beyond to the right a grove of trees 
extended to the creek some distance off, and still 
farther beyond lay fields and woods, through which 
the winding road ran, lost here and there where 
the trees were very thick, then appearing again on 
the other side, over bridges, and past the toll-gate, 
with the little white cottage of the toll-keeper who 
lived there with his wife and son, and with whom 
Paul had many a pleasant chat, having known them all 
his life. 

He clasped his hands and blinked his eyes, looking in 
all directions at every beautiful and familiar spot, all 
bringing up some little incident that had happened 
during his short life. 

He could see the place where the carriage was upset 
about two years before, throwing them all out in aheap; 
he remembered well how his mother had lost conscious- 
ness for a time, and how frightened they all were to 
see her white face, thinking that she was killed. 

He could see a part of the parsonage on the other side 
of the creek, most of it being hidden by trees. What 
a loved spot that was, for his great friend and tutor lived 


8o 


The Story of a Little Poet 

there, Dr. Andrews, the minister of their church. He 
was away at present visiting distant relatives, and 
Paul wondered whether he could have heard the news 
or not, and thought how he should miss him if he had 
to move very far away from Beechwood. 

Finally a rose-bush growing near one of the summer- 
houses attracted him. 

“ Do you think my favorite rose-bush could be trans- 
planted without doing it any harm, Mother?” he asked. 

Mrs. Arlington knew well which it was, and why he 
called it his favorite. 

“ I suppose it could, with care,” she replied. “ Why 
do you ask?” 

“Because,” continued Paul, then hesitated and glanced 
at his mother, whose eyes were bent over her sewing; 
then he said, “I was only thinking that if anything ever 
happened that I should have to go away from Beech- 
wood, I should like to take it with me.” 

That remark was so strange and unusual that Mrs. 
Arlington looked up quickly, giving him one searching 
glance as it dawned upon her now that he must know, 
and without a doubt his quiet and serious manner since 
the day before had been due to this knowledge. She, 
however, did not let him see that she had discovered 
his secret, his big thought of the day before. She 
would listen first to all he had to say. 

“Do you think so much of that rose-bush?” she 
asked, speaking very low and keeping her eyes down 
close over her sewing. 

“ Indeed I do; I would not part with it for anything. 
You know why, Mother. How I used to lie on the 
grass beside it when you were so ill with fever that sum- 
mer, and look up at your window when they would n’t 


8i 


The Story of a Little Poet 

allow me in the room, and every time a flower or bud 
came out, I picked it and went up softly to your door, 
and told them to give it to you from me. I used to 
think if you saw one of those roses you loved so much, 
that perhaps it might make you well. I was such a little 
fellow then, you know, only five. Then that day when 
Dr. Harrison found me there crying; I will never 
forget it, because you were very sick then, and I thought 
you would die, and the pretty roses would not make 
you well, after all. And while I was crying, Dr. 
Harrison picked me right up in his arms and said, 
* Come, wipe your tears away, and do not cry any more, 
for your mother will soon be well now.’ 

“ I was so glad I did not know what to do. I said, ‘ I 
think it was the pretty roses, after all, Doctor.’ I looked 
at the bush and found just two beautiful buds on it, and 
I picked them and took them up to your room, and 
they said I could come in and give them to you myself. 
You smiled when you saw me, and reached out your 
hand for them. They said you were too weak to talk, 
but I knew you were glad I brought them, and they 
lifted me up and I kissed you. Don’t you remember 
all about it, Mother?” 

“ Yes, I remember it all very plainly,” said Mrs. 
Arlington, bending her head down still lower. 

“ Mother dear, do you know that I could close my 
eyes and see every tree and bush in the Beechwood 
grounds, even if I was thousands of miles away? See 
our cosey nook over there, where you read so many 
books to me while I lay in the hammock and you sat in 
the little red wicker chair close beside me. Was n’t it 
strange how those trees formed such a pretty bower 
themselves without any training? If you will just lean 

6 


82 


The Story of a Little Poet 

over a little, Mother, you can see the grape arbor. 
Don’t you remember the day when Grace and I were 
swinging in the swing under it, and she slipped off? 
It frightens me yet whenever I think of it. I thought 
she was killed, and how glad I was when I found she 
was not hurt much. Swings are dangerous things for 
such wee little girls as Grace, I think. I never put her 
on again after that.” So interested had Paul become 
describing these little incidents, that he talked straight 
ahead, never being aware that he had unconsciously re- 
vealed his great secret to his mother, and at the same 
time nearly breaking her heart as he told of his love for 
Beechwood in so sweet and pathetic a manner, and how 
brave a little heart he had, after all. But why he had 
not come directly to her when he heard the news, she 
was still at a loss to understand. 

“ Oh, dear ! ” he finally said, heaving a long sigh, “ I 
really don’t know which part I love the most. I guess 
I love it all the same.” 

His eyes blinked very hard now, and before he was 
conscious of their coming, they filled with tears. Then 
suddenly the situation dawned upon him ; perhaps his 
mother would think it strange for him to talk in 
that way of Beechwood. He leaned far out of the 
window, and hastily brushed the tears away, then 
turned and looked at his mother. Her arms were held 
out toward him, and he knew now that she actually had 
read his secret by what he had said. 

He gave one spring and was in her arms, with his 
face buried on her shoulder ; but what a fight he was 
undergoing to keep back the tears and be brave for her 
sake; for she had told him in that moment, by the 
tears in her eyes and her sorrowful expression, how sad 














. 


























































The Story of a Little Poet 83 

she also felt about it all, — at least he thought that was 
the cause, when in reality it was only her sympathy for 
her child that caused the tears to come then and made 
it impossible for her to speak. 

“ And so my boy knows it all,” she said, holding him 
very tightly and imprinting a kiss on his head. 

“ Yes, I know it all,” he replied in a trembling voice, 
but gaining strength and courage every minute. “ It is 
very sad, but I am going to be very brave about it.” 
Then he raised his head and sat up straight on her lap, 
and looked right in her face, feeling very proud and 
manly that she could see no tears. 

“ You do not know how sorry I am that we must all 
leave Beechwood, Paul, especially you, because I know 
it means more to you than to the other two children.” 

“ Oh, never mind about me,” said Paul, looking very 
brave indeed now that the desire for crying had been 
conquered. “ It is I who am sorry for you, Mother 
dear, because I know how much you love it too.” 

“Of course I am very much attached to it, but then 
think how much more your father loves it than the rest 
of us. He and his father were born here, and here he 
has spent the whole thirty-three years of his life, and 
you only nine.” 

“ Why, of course it must be worse for him than any- 
body,” said Paul. “ I never thought of that. I am 
always so selfish, I never think of any one but myself.” 

“ If we thought of others we would not feel so badly,” 
said Mrs. Arlington. “ Of course it is going to be one of 
the greatest trials we have had in our lives ; but we will 
make up our minds to bear it bravely, won’t we? And 
try to forget all about how we feel, when we think of 
your father. We must do everything we can, Paul, to 


84 The Story of a Little Poet 

make him forget his troubles, for he has more to bear 
than any of us. Not only the giving up of Beechwood, 
but the loss of nearly all his money, together with the 
business responsibilities and worries he has had for 
months, and, worst of all, he is far from well ; that con- 
cerns me most above all things.” 

“ I thought he looked sick yesterday,” said Paul, 
“ and I was so glad to see him laugh at Roy when we 
went to the camp. I was wishing I could be like him 
and make him laugh sometimes too. Roy is so jolly; it 
seems he is always making people feel happy.” 

“ A sunny, happy nature like Roy’s is surely to be 
envied, Paul, but we are not all of the same disposition 
in this world. It is just as natural for him to be the 
gay, romping, mischievous boy that he is, as it is for 
my little philosopher here to ponder over deep thoughts, 
and be wanting to know the whys and wherefores of 
everything. Your pleasures are derived from a differ- 
ent source, my dear, that is the only difference ; and we 
know you are just as happy in your way as Roy is in 
his, although you do not make as much noise about it.” 

“You know me, Mother dear, don’t you? Many 
people don’t know I ’m happy when I really am ; but 
you know it. Why, sometimes I am just as happy as I 
can be, and yet I can’t be jolly like Roy.” 

“ Well, we love you as much just as you are, my boy, 
and one like Roy I think sufficient in one family,” said 
Mrs. Arlington, laughing. “You have not told me how 
you learned of your father’s failure.” 

“ Oh, yes ! I forgot to tell you that, Mother. I was 
sitting in the summer-house reading, and heard Aleck 
tell Pat all about it. They did not know I was listening, 
but I could n’t help it. I wanted to come and talk to 


The Story of a Little Poet 85 

you about it, and know for certain if it were all true ; 
but of course you know it was very sad at first, and I 
knew you must be feeling badly too, and I did n’t want 
you to see me until I got used to it. Do you think I 
have been just a little brave about it? ” 

“ Indeed I do, wonderfully strong and brave, and I 
am very proud of you, for you have made my sorrow 
much lighter.” 

“ I am so glad, I was afraid I would never get used 
to the dreadful news. Will you tell me just what a 
money panic is, Mother, and how it made Father fail ?” 

“ It means that there is very little money in circula- 
tion. One of the largest banks failed, which frightened 
people, causing a great run on the other banks. Every 
one, you see, wanted to get his money out, fear- 
ing more failures. Two merchants failed during this 
trouble, who owed your father large sums of money; 
and the great losses he sustained through these failures, 
and the difficulty in getting money, crippled him to 
such an extent that he was obliged to bring his business 
to a stand-still ; but remember we are going to try to 
make him forget all about his troubles when he returns 
at night, are n’t we ? ” 

“ Yes, I am going to try ever so hard ; and if I ever 
feel sad again, I will just think how much worse it is for 
him, and perhaps — • perhaps, Mother dear,” he said, 
clasping his hands, and looking up into her face, with 
his own fairly beaming, “when I’m a man I can buy 
Beechwood back again.” 

“ Perhaps you can, my darling, who can tell,” said 
his mother, stroking the soft ringlets that lay about his 
neck. 


CHAPTER VIII 


B EECHWOOD had only been up for sale two weeks 
when it was purchased by a wealthy gentleman, 
whose family were then in Europe, and would not 
return until the following autumn. Arrangements had 
been made, however, for the Arlingtons to remain until 
then, or until Mr. Arlington had found a suitable home 
for them in a suburb of Chicago. 

“ I will not be in too great a hurry to send for you 
all,” he said to his family, as they drove with him to the 
railway station the morning he was to start for Chicago 
and take his new position. “ I want to be sure when I 
select a home that it will please you, so I intend giving 
a thorough search through all the suburbs. I know not 
one of you would be content to live in the city.” 

“ No, we would n’t,” they all replied. 

“ Just so it has a little yard to make a garden of, I 
will be happy,” said Paul. 

“ Where we ten have ’ots and ’ots of fowers, and 
some birds to sing and a dreat big shady tree,” said 
Grace. 

“ And where we can see lots of Indians and buffaloes 
every day,” said Roy. 

“ I am afraid you will at least be disappointed, Roy; 
you will have to go much farther West to see any 
Indians or buffaloes,” said Mr. Arlington, laughing. 
“Oh, pshaw! I thought I should see some in Chi- 


The Story of a Little Poet 87 

cago,” said Roy, in a very disappointed tone. “ Buffalo 
Bill lives near there, though, does n’t he ?” 

“ No, I think not,” replied Mr. Arlington. 

“ Well, then, I don’t think I ’ll go,” and Roy settled 
himself back in an attitude of deep disgust, losing all 
his interest in the new home. “ I thought I would get 
acquainted with him, and maybe he would take me 
with him on some of his buffalo hunts,” he continued. 

To think of buffaloes made baby Grace tremble with 
fear; she had seen pictures of them, and they looked 
very fierce indeed. 

“ We don’t want ter doe where the dreat big buffaloes 
are, ’tause ’ey might kill us,” she said. 

“ Oh ! I would n’t be afraid of them,” said Roy. 
“ Not if I had Buffalo Bill with me.” 

“ You will never see one in your new home, so do 
not be in the least alarmed, little pet,” said Mr. Arling- 
ton, as he lifted Grace from the carriage to the platform 
at the station. “ I will try my best to find a place that 
even Roy will like, notwithstanding the absence of 
Buffalo Bill and the Indians. You are all going to be 
good children now, I am sure, and take good care of 
the little mother until I send for you, are you not?” 

“ I will take the very best care of her,” said Paul, 
taking her arm, as they walked toward the front of the 
platform. 

“ And so will I,” said Roy, taking the other arm. 

“ And so will I,” echoed baby Grace, throwing her 
arms about her, bringing the procession to a stand- 
still. 

“See that,” said Mrs. Arlington, laughing. “Now 
how can you have any fears concerning me in your 
absence? You are the one we are concerned about, 


88 


The Story of a Little Poet 

isn’t he, children? To go off entirely alone, so many 
miles from us all.” 

“ Oh, you mustn’t worry about me, little ones,” said 
Mr. Arlington, as all three rushed toward him and 
clung to him, leaving Mrs. Arlington standing quite 
alone after that remark of hers. “ I shall get along all 
right, although I shall miss you all sadly; but what 
would please me most of all would be to hear constantly 
good reports from home of each of you, and if you will 
all keep well and happy, I can ask no more,” he con- 
tinued, kissing each one a last good-by, as the train 
slowed up, and in another minute he stood on the back 
platform of the car, waving his handkerchief to the little 
group he left behind, while they continued in return to 
wave theirs until he was lost to sight. 

That very day Grandma and Aunt Helen came out 
to Beechwood to remain with them until they left for 
their Western home. Aunt Helen was a great favorite 
with the children, full of life and fun ; she joined them 
in their play frequently, and amused them in a number 
of ways; read to them, told wonderful fairy tales, which 
would keep Roy’s attention by the hour. There was 
only one drawback to her companionship being every- 
thing that was desired from Paul’s point of view, and 
that was her lack of interest and sympathy for the great 
passion of his life, — his wonderful love for the poor. 
When he was a very small child a ragged man, woman, 
or child were objects of the greatest interest to him. 
He seemed to think because they looked poor and for- 
lorn they must be sick and suffering; and he had such 
a sympathetic little heart that he did not like to think 
of that. One day, when he was about four years of 
age, a beggar man with a wooden stump came to the 


The Story of a Little Poet 89 

door. Paul happened to be on the porch alone when 
he came up. He had never seen such a thing in his 
life, and it filled him with the greatest curiosity and 
awe. So surprised was he at first, he was seized with 
a feeling akin to fear, and stepped back of a porch chair 
peeping at the man with wide-open eyes and fast-beat- 
ing heart. It was not that he was actually afraid of 
him, for he was never afraid of any beggar or pedler, 
but it was simply the stump, and the fact of the man 
having his leg off and that queer thing in its place, that 
awed him. 

“ I ’m not gone to hurt yer, child,” said the man, while 
he waited for some one to answer the bell, noticing 
what he thought a very much frightened child peeping 
at him from behind a chair. 

Paul made no answer to this remark, but stepped out 
cautiously and walked around him at a safe distance, 
with his hands clasped, taking a view of the stump from 
all standpoints ; finally he gained more courage as his 
curiosity and sympathy increased, and he took a few 
steps nearer, then said in a most pathetic tone, “ Does 
it hurt you very much?” 

The beggar laughed so loud at this that Paul gave a 
start back, and was more puzzled and curious than ever, 
though it did lessen to some extent the intensity of his 
sympathy for him, for if he could laugh in such a hearty 
manner, it surely could not hurt him much, and yet 
why did n’t it hurt ? was a thought that filled his little 
puzzled brain. He thought so much about this beggar 
and the stump that he could not go to sleep for a long 
while that night, and for weeks and months asked ques- 
tion after question concerning that wonderful leg. 

So much was he affected by such things that his 


go The Story of a Little Poet 

parents were always very careful to prevent him, as far 
as possible, from coming in contact with them. 

His interest in the poor did not diminish as he grew 
older, owing somewhat to the fact that he had many 
opportunities that tended to develop this characteristic. 

His father, together with a number of other wealthy 
gentlemen and Dr. Andrews, the minister, had founded 
a home for poor children, two miles from Beechwood. 
It was considered one of the best managed of that class 
of institutions, and through this alone, Paul had gained 
a great deal of knowledge of the poor, being a regular 
visitor there, and a great favorite among the seventy- 
five little inmates. 

Although to many little Paul appeared more serious 
and thoughtful than was natural for a child of his age, 
those who understood him best knew that, with all his 
quiet old-fashioned ways, he was also very quick to 
appreciate humor, and that he was even capable of 
getting off a little joke or pun himself, though he had a 
serious way of doing so. 

One day he sought his mother to ask her something, 
and found her sitting with his aunt, having a discussion 
over some material that was to be made into a waist. 

He was in a great hurry, but waited politely several 
minutes for an opportunity to speak, and when he did, 
the first thing he said was, — 

“ Well, no matter what you may think about that 
material, there is one thing I am sure of, and that is, it 
is all going to waste [waist].” 

One afternoon, just a few days after his father had 
left, he stood on a little rustic bridge that crossed the 
creek, over the grounds belonging to the parsonage. 
He was alone, with no companions except those that 


The Story of a Little Poet 91 

nature provided for him: the running stream, the birds, 
the beautiful trees and shrubbery, the hum of insects. 
His whole soul responded to nature’s influences; for 
he was by nature a little poet (as they called him at 
home). 

It was a beautiful spot where he now stood, and one 
he especially loved. He often came here to wait for Dr. 
Andrews, his tutor, for in summer their school-room had 
been here close by the water, and Paul had received 
instruction in branches of study suitable for his years. 
But he had not come there for that purpose to-day; for 
Dr. Andrews was away, and Paul had not heard when 
he expected to return. He was thinking about leaving 
Beechwood, and it was the first time that he had allowed 
himself to think very hard about it, since his father left. 
He had been with his mother almost constantly, and had 
seemed to realize that she missed his father and was 
greatly concerned about his health, and felt that he must 
try to cheer her up, and keep her from feeling lonely 
and sad, and in doing so he had in a great measure 
forgotten himself. 

“ I will try to remember this always, just as it looks 
now,” he was thinking, gazing first up the creek, then 
down, then up at the trees, with their interlacing branches 
overhead, then through them at the blue sky like a 
canopy of silk over all. Then his eyes followed the 
flight of a bird as it flew to its nest on a leafy bough. 
He drew a long sigh, and stood quite still, with his hands 
folded on the rail of the bridge, then he closed his eyes 
to ascertain if he could still see it all with memory’s eye. 
Yes, he was sure he should always remember it as long 
as he lived. 

His lashes were wet with tears when he opened them 


92 The Story of a Little Poet 

again, and, hastily brushing them away, he stepped from 
the bridge, and started to walk toward the house. “ I 
must find some one to talk to,” he thought, “ and must 
not stay here thinking. I ’m not strong, after all, and 
must get away from myself as fast as possible ; ” but he 
had only taken a few steps when he was startled by a 
noise in the bushes on the other side of the creek, and, 
turning quickly, he saw Dr. Andrews making straight 
for the bridge. 

“ Ah, there you are ! I thought I would find you 
here,” called the doctor. “ Have you missed me all 
these weeks, or have you not found time to think 
of me? ” 

“ Oh, Doctor ! I have never missed you so much 
before,” said Paul, as they embraced each other on the 
bridge. 

“ I suppose that you have heard the dreadful news 
about us,” continued Paul, with a little tremor in his voice 
and blinking his eyes very fast. 

“Yes, I have heard all, and I returned sooner than I 
expected for that very reason. Come, let us sit down 
here on the bench, and talk about it.” 

“ I don’t know whether I can talk about it very much,” 
said Paul, his voice still quavering. “You see, I ’m not 
very strong yet. It was so sudden, and it takes a long 
while to get strong about such things, but I have to try 
to be all the time, and maybe if I keep right on, after a 
while I shall get used to it.” 

“ Bravo, my boy, that is the way to talk ! Why, you 
are already very brave, I think, and I am proud of you.” 

Although he spoke in a very jovial manner, it was 
with difficulty Dr. Andrews kept the tears from his own 
eyes, as he looked down in Paul’s face, when he spoke, 


The Story of a Little Poet 93 

with its pathetic expression, and heard his trembling 
voice, as he made desperate efforts to control himself. 

He drew him on his knee, and rested his head on his 
breast, while he held him very close indeed. 

“ I always like to hear any one say they miss me,” 
he said, “ and I can return the compliment, for although 
I have had very little spare time, I have missed you, Paul, 
every day, and often wished to be back with you again 
in the Beechwood grounds. Let me see, it will be six 
weeks to-morrow since I saw you, and, I think, the long- 
est time we have been separated since you were a baby. 
I am sure you must have a great deal to tell me ; but, 
first of all,* let me tell you how sorry I was to learn of 
your father’s failure, and how well I know just what this 
change means for you, to give up your beautiful home 
and all in which you are so interested. But I am sure 
now, by what I have heard, that you are going to act 
like a brave little man in the matter, and, after all, I do 
not think it will be so dreadful as you have imagined. 
There are many things you still have left to love and 
make you happy, even if Beechwood is taken away ; and 
you must fight very hard not to let it make you unhappy, 
or keep your eyes closed to the many blessings still left 
you. 

“ You may not be able to feel it now, but later on 
perhaps you will see that this trial came for some wise 
purpose, and I am sure you will soon be interested in 
your new home and surroundings, and find many pleas- 
ures that will be entirely new. Your father has written 
me from Chicago, and states that he is looking in the 
suburbs for a pleasant house for you.” 

Paul listened very attentively to all the comforting 
words of the young minister, and felt more resigned than 


94 The Story of a Little Poet 

ever. Dr. Andrews had a wonderful way of making him 
see all his little troubles in a new light. How often be- 
fore he had taken a load from his heart ; and now in this, 
the greatest trial of his life, he was giving him strength 
and comfort. He nestled up to him still closer until his 
head rested under the minister’s chin. 

“ Has it ever occurred to you, my boy, that I am as 
sorry to part with you as you are with Beechwood? 
Don’t you remember that I have frequently told you that 
one of the greatest sorrows that could come to me would 
be a separation from you? In a large measure you 
have taken the place of my baby boy. He would have 
been very near your age, had he lived, and I would 
have missed him much more, and my loneliness would 
have been almost unbearable, had it not been for 
you;” and as he spoke Dr. Andrews’s voice grew quite 
husky. Paul was aroused immediately; he had not 
thought of the young minister’s attachment in that 
light before. True, Dr. Andrews had always seemed 
a part of his very life, like that of his father and mother. 
They had seen each other almost every day since he 
was an infant ; in fact, Paul had spent more time with 
him than with his father, for his field of work lay right in 
Arlington, affording him many opportunities for a call 
at Beechwood, especially as the grounds joined his own. 

Paul was only a few months old when the young 
minister came to take charge of the church in Arlington 
and live in the parsonage adjoining Beechwood. He 
had lived there just one year when his wife and baby 
boy were both taken away from him, leaving him with 
a broken heart. He had gone away for some months 
after their death, being totally unfit for his duties, and 
on his return had spent much time at Beechwood, taking 


The Story of a Little Poet 95 

a great fancy to baby Paul, with his sweet face and 
large dreamy eyes, and gradually it seemed as though 
he was taking the place of his own baby. As the 
months and years passed, this affection grew stronger, 
and Paul became an object of the greatest interest and 
love to the lonely young minister, who watched with 
deep interest the gradual unfolding of his beautiful 
character. There being no convenient school, he had, 
of his own accord, taken upon himself to be his in- 
structor, — a plan which was agreed to very willingly 
by his parents. 

Paul looked up to Dr. Andrews with the greatest 
reverence and love, and was always quoting him. To 
hear him suddenly change his tone, and speak so sadly 
of the coming separation, made Paul feel very sad too, 
and he began to realize the minister’s great affection for 
him. So much had he been taken up in thinking of 
Beechwood that other necessary separations had not 
been realized. 

“ Have I really taken the place of your little lost 
baby?” he asked, much affected by Dr. Andrews’s 
tone and manner. 

“ More than you can ever imagine, my boy,” he re- 
plied. 

Paul nestled still closer to him, and did not know 
what to say for a minute. How strange that he had not 
thought more about this parting ! flow could he get 
along anyhow without Dr. Andrews, his daily compan- 
ion, his best friend and tutor? Suddenly he placed his 
arms around his neck and said very earnestly: “Why, 
I believe, Doctor, I will miss you a great deal more than 
I will Beechwood. I forgot all about this ; but now I 
think that I will miss you most of all.” 


96 The Story of a Little Poet 

Dr. Andrews just pressed him closer, and knew he 
spoke from his heart. Then he said, “ Thank you, Paul ; 
so you see, after all, we both have the same trouble. 
But let me show you something I have in my pocket. 
I have had it with me all these weeks. I found it under 
a tree the day I left, and I recognized the writing, and 
also knew there could be only one person who could 
have written such a pretty little poem ! ” 

While he spoke he took from his pocket a slip of 
paper and began unfolding it. “ Any boy who could 
write these verses could not remain gloomy and sad very 
long. Now listen : — 

“ ‘ Trill away, pretty bird, sing your sweetest lay ; 

Sing to the sun above that made this glorious day ; 

Sing to the fleecy clouds that sail just overhead, 

And change at sunset in the West to a golden red. 

“ * Sing to the soft green leaves that cover every bough, 
Underneath your little feet where you are standing now ; 

Sing to the running brook where, in its cooling spray, 

You bathe and drink its waters many times a day. 

“ ‘ Sing to the flowers gay that grow where you abide, 

And fill with sweetest fragrance the air on every side ; 

Sing to your nestlings small in yonder leafy tree, 

And for the house you made them, as cosey as can be. 

“ ‘ Sing for the food you take them every single day, 

So that soon they too might sing a thankful round-de-lay ; 

Trill away, pretty bird, for all the world gives you and me, 

For God above Who made the world, every flower and tree. 
Sing to Him your songs of praise, till you can sing no more, 
Then maybe, sweet bird, you will sing upon the other shore.’ ” 

“ I know what you are going to say,” said Paul, 
laughing as the minister folded the paper with a very 
amused expression. 


The Story of a Little Poet 97 

“ Well ! what is it? Let me hear if you have guessed 
correctly.” 

“ Why, I think you would say, How funny for a boy 
to see all that a little bird has to be thankful for, and 
yet not be able to see what he has himself.” 

“ You are about right, Paul. It is rather a good joke, 
isn’t it? To tell a bird to sing praises for all God 
has given him, and forget to sing them yourself, when 
you have so much more to be thankful for ; but I am 
sure you will not forget very long, and soon I expect 
to see you just as happy and gay as the little bird you 
wrote about. Did you miss the little poem? I found 
it just as I left the Beechwood grounds, the day I went 
away, and I thought I would take it with me.” 

“ I remember writing it,” said Paul, “ but I had for- 
gotten all about it. I must have dropped it the very 
day I wrote it.” 

“ Here is something else I want to show you, and it 
corresponds so well with the little poem, I intend having 
the poem printed on the back. Do you remember the 
day I took the snap-shot of you as you stood in the 
rockery, listening to the song of a bird? It made a 
very pretty picture, and here it is.” 

Paul was delighted with the photograph he saw of 
himself, standing in the midst of the ferns that grew in 
a rocky mound, listening intently to a bird that had 
suddenly attracted him in a tree near by. While he 
stood and listened, afraid to move a finger for fear of 
interrupting the song and frightening the bird away, 
these verses came into his mind. 

“ Well, how about Glenwood Home, Paul ? Have you 
been there often during my absence?” 

This question thoroughly aroused Paul, reminding 
7 


98 The Story of a Little Poet 

him of all the important news he had to relate in 
reference to Moll and the organ-grinder. 

The photograph fell from his hands, and he jumped 
off Dr. Andrews’s lap, standing before him full of anima- 
tion, his eyes fairly sparkling with excitement. 

“ Oh, I forgot all about poor Mr. Graves and Moll,” 
he said. “ And I wanted to tell you about them the 
first thing. I went out one day for a walk while I was 
staying at Grandma’s, and I saw a poor blind organ- 
grinder, sitting on a stool near a corner, and I went up 
and got acquainted with him. His hair was white as 
snow, and he looked very sad and sick. I have his name 
here in my memoranda, see ! ” he continued, holding it 
before Dr. Andrews. “ Mr. Graves, number sixteen, 
Hunter Street, third floor. I have sent him a letter 
about coming out to Beechwood to spend the day with 
his little daughter; but Mother said I could not tell him 
when to come until you returned, so you could find 
out all about him first. But I know he is a good man, 
Doctor, indeed I do. Well, after I left him I could not 
help thinking about him all the time. I walked on and 
on, and did not even notice where I was going, I was so 
busy thinking; but after a while I found I was lost, and 
I was just going to ask some man how to get back to 
Grandma’s, when I heard some children screaming and 
laughing, and I looked up a little narrow street right 
near me, and saw some boys and girls teasing a poor, 
little, ragged girl, who was lying on a cellar door. One 
big boy, named Bill Jones, was dragging her by the 
arm so roughly, I thought he would pull it out. I ran 
right up to him and stopped him. He looked so cross 
at first that I thought he was going to strike me, but 
he did n’t. I said, Stop that, and never do such a thing 
again.” 


The Story of a Little Poet 99 

Here Paul was interrupted by the sudden appearance 
of Roy stepping out from behind a tree, and with flash- 
ing eyes and a shake of the fist, he said, “ Why did n’t 
you send for me, Perseffer? I ’de a thashed [thrashed] 
that Bill good,” then like a flash he turned and sped 
away among the trees and shrubbery as suddenly as he 
had appeared. For some time Roy had been listening 
and watching from behind the large trunk of an oak- 
tree. He saw the affectionate greeting of Dr. Andrews 
and Paul on the bridge, and noted Paul’s trembling 
voice when they began to talk about leaving Beech- 
wood. And when they sat on the bench, and Dr. 
Andrews drew Paul on his knee and told him of his 
love for him, and how he had taken the place of his 
lost baby, the little scene made him feel very queer. 
“It’s kind of solemn,” he thought, as he watched and 
listened. “ They don’t want me, so I ’ll stay here and 
hide.” But when Paul began to tell of the blind man 
and the ragamuffin, he became very much interested, 
and when he described Bill Jones’s treatment of poor 
Moll, he began to get excited, and forgot that he was 
in hiding. But as soon as he had spoken, it occurred 
to him, and he felt ashamed that he had been caught 
eavesdropping, so he turned on his heels and quickly 
fled. 

“ The little mischievous monkey,” said Dr. Andrews, 
laughing. “ Go on, Paul.” 

Then he continued : “ And he let her go; I think he 
felt ashamed. I sent him for some bread for her, for she 
was nearly starved to death. She felt better and stronger 
after she had eaten ; and what do you think I did? ” 

“ I give it up,” said Dr. Andrews, very much 

interested. 

L.oFC. 


IOO 


The Story of a Little Poet 

“ I sent an officer over to her mother, who signed her 
name in one of the Home circulars; then I took her 
back to Grandma's with me, and the next day we 
brought her out to the Home. And you should see 
her now. She is getting stronger and fatter every day, 
and that dreadful frightened look she had when I found 
her has all gone away, and she is so happy, because 
she has some one to speak kindly to her, and plenty to 
eat every day.” 

“ Well, well ! ” said Dr. Andrews, “ so you have 
found a little waif for the Home all yourself.” 

“ Yes, all by myself, and was n’t it strange, when I 
found her, I forgot all about the blind man for a long 
time? I think that it was because she looked poorer 
and sicker than he did, and because she was a little 
child. But I have her here now, well and happy, and 
won’t you help me make the poor organ-grinder com- 
fortable too? ” 

“ What would you have me do, my boy? ” 

“ Why, only to go to his house sometime when you 
are in the city, if it is not too much trouble, and find 
out all about him. I am sure he is good and honest, 
for I can tell by his face, but Mother does not feel sure. 
You see she did n’t get acquainted with him, and she 
says she must learn something about his character 
before she consents to have him come to Beechwood.” 

“ Suppose we go up to the house and talk with her 
about it all,” said Dr. Andrews, arising. “ I have only 
a half-hour longer to be with you, as I have an appoint- 
ment with a gentleman at five.” 

“ Oh, I knew you would try to do something for 
Mr. Graves when you heard about him,” said Paul. 
“Won’t he think Beechwood is beautiful? Of course 


IOI 


The Story of a Little Poet 

he cannot see it, because he is blind ; but he can hear 
the birds sing and feel the grass under his feet, and 
smell the flowers, can’t he?” said Paul, while hand in 
hand they walked through the trees and over the lawns 
toward the house. 

“ I have no doubt the poor old man would enjoy a 
day in the country very much, if it is possible to get 
him here; for if all his days are spent on the street of 
a hot dusty city, turning the crank of an organ, it 
would be a treat indeed to breathe the fresh country 
air. I hope I shall find him all that you think him, 
and that you will have the pleasure of seeing this little 
plan of yours carried out.” 


CHAPTER IX 


D R. ANDREWS had promised that on his next 
visit to the city he would try, if it were pos- 
sible, to find out all about the character of the blind 
man. Paul now became so interested in the prospect, 
in which he felt there could be no disappointment, 
that he was more like his old self again. He had so 
much to think about, so much to do, and so many 
pleasant drives and talks with Dr. Andrews, that the 
days passed very rapidly. He made a great effort to 
be bright and cheerful before his mother, even when 
helping her pack many of the little treasures which 
were to go with them to their Western home. After 
the men had packed furniture and carpets, the rooms 
looked quite desolate, and at times he experienced 
feelings of great loneliness ; but he was determined not 
to look or act in any way that might cause his mother 
to feel more unhappy, for was he not taking care of 
her? And what would his father say if he failed to be 
brave and manly during his absence? This thought 
braced him up. 

“ I think this little plan of Paul’s about the organ- 
grinder will be a very good thing for him,” Dr. Andrews 
had remarked to Mrs. Arlington. “ It will divert his 
mind, and I hope for that reason I shall find his char- 
acter to be all that is desired on investigation.” 

“ I agree with you, and hope you will be successful, 


The Story of a Little Poet 103 

As long as we remain here, I would like, if possible, to 
have something that would be of especial interest to 
him, and take his mind off the one subject that has 
been such a great sorrow to him. Poor little fellow, 
he has had quite a struggle, and I am surprised to see 
how well he controls himself.” 

“ He is bearing it bravely,” said Dr. Andrews ; “ but 
you have so much to do and to think about at present 
that suppose you leave Paul to me, and I will manage 
to keep his mind diverted by many things I have already 
planned.” 

“ Thank you, Doctor, it will be a wonderful help to 
me and a great relief to my mind, for I could not bear 
to think of him wandering aimlessly day after day 
through the Beechwood grounds, with this one thought 
uppermost in his mind. I have managed so far to keep 
him with me the greater part of the time since his father 
left, and he has felt, too, that it was his duty to stay near 
me. He is trying hard to be brave and cheerful for my 
sake, I can plainly see ; but whether he will be able to 
continue so through all the trying ordeals yet to come, 
is very doubtful, and, as you suggest, to keep him con- 
stantly interested in something is the only course to 
pursue.” 

The day Dr. Andrews went to the city, Paul was in 
the best of spirits. He romped with Roy, raced with 
him on their bicycles, played ball, and in fact was at 
Roy’s service for any sport he wished him to join in. 

“ My ! But I ’m glad I ’m alive to-day, ain’t you, 
Perseffer? You are a jolly fellow this morning,” said 
Roy once, while in the midst of their play, looking at 
him in a very puzzled way. Paul was always a puzzle 
to Roy; he was too deep for him, and yet Roy had the 


104 The Story of a Little Poet 

greatest respect for him, and often wished he could say 
the bright things that Paul did, and write pretty verses 
about the flowers, the birds, and the trees. 

Several times he had tried to compose some poetry; 
but after thinking for a long while to make two lines 
rhyme without success, he finally gave up in disgust. 
But one rainy day he actually did manage to write two 
poems, which were a great success in his opinion, 
though he felt doubtful of what Paul’s would be, if he 
showed them to him. He had carried them around in 
his pocket for several days and could not make up his 
mind to show them, and there they were now, all 
rumpled, and mixed with pebbles, dead bugs, strings, 
and nails. 

“Why ain’t you always jolly, Perseffer?” he asked, 
while they sat down on a bridge in the road after a race. 

“ I don’t know,” replied Paul. “ I try to be, but 
somehow I can never be like you, no matter how I try.” 

“ Oh, it ’s easy, Persef,” said Roy, straightening him- 
self up and feeling quite proud that such an import- 
ant person as the Perseffer should express a desire to 
be just like him, and that there was something, after all, 
he was capable of accomplishing that Paul envied, and 
failed to do. 

“ I will teach you to be jolly,” continued Roy, “ if 
you’ll only come with me, and do what I say. All you 
have to do is to have races every day, play football, 
marbles, climb trees after squirrels, play soldiers, and 
never, never,” he said with great emphasis, “ make 
poetry verses.” 

“ Well, I don’t think I could give that up, Roy,” said 
Paul, with a very serious face. 

“Well, then, you can never be jolly like me, for 


The Story of a Little Poet 105 

Mother says it worries your brain to make verses, and 
I know it does too, because — because, Perseffer, I 
tried once, and it made my head buzz and my eyes 
ache just trying to think.” 

While he spoke, he put his hand in the pocket where 
he remembered he had placed his poems. There they 
were ; but he did not bring them out immediately. 

“ I think poetries is the hardest work a feller can 
do,” he continued. 

“ Why, I never knew you tried to make poetry,” said 
Paul, in great surprise. 

“ I know you did n’t, because I never told you. But 
I did, anyhow, and all by myself, and here they are.” 
Two soiled pieces of crumpled paper were brought 
forth, which Paul eagerly took and carefully straight- 
ened out, while Roy watched him closely to note the 
effect his great efforts would have on such a competent 
judge. 

Paul started immediately to read aloud. 

Once ther wer a farmer jolly and gay 
Waitin to work the very next day 
To cut down his otes and lode up his hay 
He went to the chickans and fed them all 
And put the horses in ther right stalls 
His work was hard that day to do 
O wasent he glad wen he was thrue 
Then the next morning wen he got up 
He put on his clothes and watered the crops 
That afternoon he milked the cows 
And worked in the fields with a dozen plows 
His work was harder that day he sed 
O wasent he glad to get in bed 
That night he got thrue with great delight. 

The end. 


Roy Arlington. 


i 06 The Story of a Little Poet 

Paul began to laugh when he finished the first line, 
and before he was half through, he was laughing so 
hard he could not make out the words. He was obliged 
to wait a few minutes to control himself before he could 
continue. 

At first Roy did not know whether to be indignant or 
not at such disrespect; but he had never seen Paul 
laugh so heartily, and Roy could never afford to lose an 
opportunity to have a good laugh, even if it was at his 
own expense, so his indignation did not last long, and 
did not affect to any great extent his merry light heart. 
He finally looked upon it too as a very good joke, and 
leaned back and laughed with Paul until their sides were 
sore. The louder they laughed, the louder Nero barked ; 
he was standing by them, having raced and romped with 
them the past hour. 

“ Why do you think it is so funny, Persef? I did n’t 
laugh a speck when I wrote it,” said Roy. 

“Well, it’s funny, and yet it’s good, Roy. It is just 
the way you have of saying it. I did not think you 
could make poetry as good as that. I did n’t mean to 
make fun of it, but somehow I could not help laughing.” 

“ Oh, that does n’t matter. Read the other one now.” 

“ Are you sure you won’t care if I laugh? ” said Paul, 
wiping the tears from his eyes, for he had laughed until 
he cried, and actually hesitated to read the other for 
fear of insulting Roy again. 

“ No, I don’t care; go ahead, Persef,” and Roy’s face 
was all in readiness for another laugh, his eyes fairly 
twinkling with merriment, as he leaned over to watch 
Paul’s face when he began : — 

“ One day as I was goin past 
I found a little flour at last.” 


The Story of a Little Poet 107 

Paul could go no farther, for right here he burst forth 
in a loud peal of laughter in which Roy joined, and 
again they were convulsed with laughter, the woods 
near by sending back the echo of their voices, while they 
continued to laugh as though they would never stop. 
It was some time before Paul was able to continue the 
reading : — 

“ And the little girl stuped down to se 
Wat this eligent flour must be 
This butiful thing wos a little rose 
With buds and leves in a swete reprose 
Then she pluckt it with tenders care 
This little rose so pirty and fare 
Then the little girl went home very fast 
And there she found her mother at last 
Then she said to her Aunt Laura 
I found the pirtiest little flour 
And after while it faded away 
One blazin red hot summer day.” 

“ I am sorry I had to laugh,” said Paul, “ but you 
said you did n’t care, and I could n’t help it. But I 
think it is good, even if I did laugh,” he continued 
encouragingly. “ Why, when I first commenced to 
make verses, they were no better than those, and every 
one you make, you see, gets better, and then you are 
younger, too.” 

“Well, I don’t care if they do get better; I am not 
going to write any more poetries,” said Roy, decidedly. 
“ Oh, look ! Perseffer, a horse has fallen down up the 
road. Let ’s go see what is the matter.” In an instant 
the boys were on their feet, and running as fast as their 
legs could carry them, with Nero bounding at their 
heels. 


108 The Story of a Little Poet 

“ What is the matter with your horse, driver? ” asked 
Roy, as they approached. 

“He’s worn out, sonny, that’s the matter; he’s an 
old horse, and been ailen a long time past. This load 
of timber was too much for him this mornin’. I told 
the boss he was nary good any more, but he said he 
was, and now see what it’s coming to, Jiminy ! He’s 
dyin’, sure,” said the man, stooping over him. 

“Can’t I do something for him?” asked Paul, his 
sympathies all aroused for the poor beast. 

“Nothin’, sonny, nothin’ at all. I think he’s beyont 
all help.” 

“ Don’t you think it would help him if you put some 
hot-water bottles on his feet?” continued Paul, stooping 
down and feeling them. 

“ We have some at the house you could have.” 

“ And I ’ll get some blankets from the stable, if you 
think he is cold,” said Roy. 

The driver laughed heartily at these suggestions, 
which immediately lowered him greatly in Paul’s esti- 
mation, for he could not see how any one could possibly 
laugh at a dying horse. 

“ You ’re kind, sonnies, but he’s about gone, and it’s 
no use wastin’ me time here. I ’ll go for a team to haul 
him away.” 

“ We will take good care of him while you are gone,” 
said Paul. 

“All right, sonnies, all right,” said the driver, as he 
walked off. So down they both sat by the roadside, 
gazing at the poor beast with the greatest sympathy 
and interest ; even jolly Roy wore a very serious face 
as he said, “ I wonder where they will bury him, 
Perseffer? ” 


The Story of a Little Poet 109 

“ They may not bury him at all,” said Paul, “ for, 
don’t you know, they can do lots of things with a dead 
horse.” 

“ Can they? Why, what can they do? ” 

“ Sometimes they give them to animals in the Zoo for 
food. And they boil their bones to make glue, and 
make leather out of their skin, and mattresses out of 
their tails and manes, and — ” 

“ Mattresses ! ” exclaimed Roy, interrupting him. 
“ The kind I sleep on? ” 

“ Yes, the very kind you sleep on. They make the 
best kind of mattresses.” 

“Well, that’s funny,” said Roy, shaking his head and 
leaning over for a closer inspection of the horse. “ I 
never knew I was sleeping on an old dead horse’s tail 
every night; ” and he leaned back and laughed heartily 
at the very idea. 

“Well, you are,” continued Paul, “either the tails or 
the manes.” 

“ I never knew all those things could be made out of 
an old dead horse, Persef.” 

“Well, I did; but I wonder,” continued the little 
philosopher, standing up and thrusting his hands away 
down in his pockets, blinking his eyes and knitting his 
brows, with a most profound expression, — “ I wonder,” 
he repeated, “ if they make anything out of the wax in 
his ears.” 

“ Wax in his ears ! ” exclaimed Roy ; “ why, candles, 
of course; anybody would know that.” 

“ No, they don’t either,” said Paul, “ because I know 
candles are made of bees-wax.” 

“ Well, just look in the ditchonery when you go home, 
Persef; that will tell you. That’s funny, though,” said 


i io The Story of a Little Poet 

Roy, suddenly bursting forth in one of his merry peals, 
as though it occurred to him as being a very good joke ; 
then the joke suddenly dawned upon Paul too, and he 
joined Roy in one long continuous laugh until again the 
woods sent back the echo, and Nero barked as long as 
they laughed. But quick as a flash Paul stopped, and 
his face assumed a most serious expression. He sud- 
denly thought of the solemnity of the occasion, and was 
indignant at himself for his laughter, when just a few 
minutes before he had felt angry with the driver for do- 
ing the very same thing. 

“What’s the matter with you? Do you feel sick, 
Persef? ” asked Roy, noticing the sudden change in 
Paul’s manner and face. 

Paul sighed and looked down on the horse very 
solemnly and said, “ I ’m sorry I laughed that way at a 
poor horse whose heart just stopped beating. I would n’t 
like any one to laugh at me right after mine stopped.” 

“ Oh, well ! that does n’t matter,” said off-handed Roy. 
“ Horses don’t know anything. If it was a human being 
I would n ’t laugh for the world.” 

“ Yes, but you ought to feel sorry even for a beast,” 
continued Paul. “ Maybe he had awful pains before 
he died.” 

“Well, he hasn’t any now, Persef, so don’t have your 
worried face on you.” 

Paul was glad when he saw the driver returning and 
he had no opportunity to disgrace himself again by 
laughing in the presence of a dead horse which had just 
breathed his last. 

They saw the load of timber, and the poor horse 
hauled away, then started for the gate to enter the 
grounds. They were turning in, when they spied poor 


1 1 1 


The Story of a Little Poet 

old Sarah Magee coming up the walk. Sarah was an 
old Irishwoman, who peddled notions ; the maids always 
bought of her ; and their mistresses frequently tried to 
help her along, knowing her to be an honest and worthy 
woman. The Arlingtons were especially interested in 
her. She was a cousin of Pat’s, and for years they had 
assisted her in many ways. With their help she had 
purchased a small house of four rooms, where she lived 
alone, except when she was laid up with rheumatism, 
then Mrs. Wesley or Mr. Arlington paid some one to 
look after her. 

“ Shure, and ye ’d think I was the queen herself to see 
them purty boys a bowen and a raisen av their caps to 
me, callen me Mrs. Magee, like if I was a great leddy,” 
the old pedler had often remarked. “ Little gintle- 
min they are, to be sure, and the loikes of that one Oi 
niver did see since Oi was born, whin he takes me arm 
and helps me along, kicken a sthick or sthone out av 
the way for fear av me sthumblin’.” 

Both boys ran to meet her when they saw her, and 
raised their hats politely as they approached. 

“Give me your basket,” said Roy; “I ’ll carry it up 
to the house,” and in a moment he was off with the 
pins, needles, and tapes, while Paul took her arm and 
assisted her up the hill. She generally came on Satur- 
day to Arlington Heights, and the boys were always on 
the look-out for her; but she had been laid up with 
rheumatism for some weeks, and Paul had not heard 
that she had recovered sufficiently to come out. Then, 
besides, he had had so much to think about lately that 
poor Sarah had escaped his mind. As soon as he saw 
her he wondered whether she had heard the news or 
not, for he knew how attached she was to them, and how 


1 1 2 The Story of a Little Poet 

she would miss them. She always came back again to 
the Arlingtons for dinner, after making her rounds 
among the neighboring houses. Then Pat would drive 
her to the station with her empty basket and a pocket- 
book full of money. Every summer she spent one 
whole week there, and what a treat that was, to leave 
the little hot house in the city and breathe the fresh 
country air, and sit under a shady tree and knit and 
doze all day long. 

“ I wonder if she knows that she will never come out 
again to stay after this summer,” thought Paul, looking 
at her questioningly as they walked toward the gate. 

“ I am sorry you were so sick with rheumatism,” he 
said. “ It must be a dreadful disease to have, when you 
can’t walk. Is it anywhere besides in the bones?” 

“ Shure, an it sames it wus in the bones an’ ivery part 
av me besides,” said old Sarah, stopping for a moment 
to rest, leaning on her stout cane, while Paul still kept 
his arm under hers. 

“ You are getting better, though, and walk pretty good 
for one who had it so badly,” said Paul, encouragingly. 

“ Oi ’m moighty stiff yit, Masther Paul, and Oi ’m a 
thinking purty wake too,” said Sarah, with a groan and 
shake of the head. “ How’s yer mither an’ father an’ 
the baby an’ all the rist?” 

“ They are all well, thank you, only Father, — he has 
not been so very well ; that is, he has had a great trouble 
over a money panic.” 

“ Money panic, is it, to be shure ? phwat ’s that agin? ” 

“ Why, it ’s a time when there ’s no money in circula- 
tion,” replied Paul, feeling very big to be able to answer 
that question in an intelligent manner, remembering his 
mother’s explanation. 


The Story of a Little Poet 1 1 3 

“ Do yez mane it’s some truble wid his business?” 

“ Yes, you see there was no money to carry it on, 
because of the panic, and he had to give it up, and he 
has gone away to Chicago in another business; and 
after a while we are going too.” 

“ Och, now it ’s foolin’ me yez be, Masther Paul. 
Phwat can yees father and all av yees be afther doin’, so 
far away, whin this was yer hame so money years? Let 
me sit fer a toime and rist, fer it’s wake yez made me 
wid thim news.” 

“ I am very sorry it made you weak,” said Paul, 
sitting down beside her by the stone wall. “ It made 
me feel weak too when I first heard it; but you’ll get 
all right again. It ’s not so dreadful when you get 
used to it. When we get in our new home, I will write 
to you, and tell you all about it.” 

There was no consolation in that, however, for poor 
old Sarah. She wiped the tears from her eyes, and 
said sorrowfully, “Yez know, Masther Paul, me lamin’ 
is not very good, and it ’s not much eddication Oi had, to 
be shure, so it ’s little radin’ Oi ’ll be afther doin’, bliss 
yer heart, all the same.” 

“ Then I will send the letters to Grandma, and she will 
read them to you. She is not going, you know; so 
please don’t be so sad, Mrs. Magee. We will come on 
to see you sometime,” he went on, trying in every 
possible way to console her, for she was greatly grieved 
over the sad news. 

“ Oi know it ’s ungrateful am Oi, to be forgettin’ av the 
Lord’s mercies to me, but whin Oi think av never seein’ 
yez dear faces agin, it lays loike a dead weight on me 
heart; for Oi ’ll miss yez so much, but Oi ’ll niver forgit 
all yez kindness, if Oi niver see yez purty face agin.” 

8 


1 14 The Story of a Little Poet 

“But you will see us again, Mrs. Magee. You know 
I must come to visit Grandma, and Dr. Andrews said I 
must come and visit him too, and of course I will go to 
see you when I am here, and so will we all.” 

“Bless yer heart, Masther Paul; it’s loike yez to be 
cheery loike and comfortin’ whiniver trubles come, an’ 
it’s yerself this very minute Oi knows that is graven 
to be afther partin’ wid yer beautiful hame.” 

“ Of course when I think about it, I cannot help but 
feel very sad, so I will try all the time not to think.” 

“ Oi ’d better git oop now, Masther Paul, and be off 
to the house ; it ’s wastin’ the toime am Oi an’ makin’ yez 
sad wid me grafe.” 

“ Yes, I think we had better,” said Paul, quickly 
jumping up, then assisting the pedler to her feet. 
“Isn’t this a beautiful day?” he said, changing the 
subject, for he feared to continue on that dangerous 
one any longer. 

“ Oi niver seen a foiner, Masther Paul, an’ a miserable 
sinner am Oi, an’ Oi spake the truth, to hide me eyes to 
the beautiful sunlight; for whin Oi started out this very 
day and sthood on me two feet, wid me basket on me 
arm once more, me heart was as light as a feather, an’ 
Oi samed not to mind me sthiff jints nary a bit, an’ Oi 
thanked the Lord, Oi did, for the beautiful day, that 
cheered me loike, an’ to think that Oi forgot, and let 
me old heart grow heavy wid the news yez be afther 
tellin’ me.” 

While she spoke, old Sarah stood still and wiped her 
eyes, and looked up through the trees at the deep blue 
sky overhead, then she gazed at the loveliness around 
her. Paul did the same, and for a minute neither 
spoke. “ She is feeling as I did at first,” he thought, 


The Story of a Little Poet 1 15 

and his heart was full of sympathy for her. Finally he 
said, “ I know exactly how you feel, Mrs. Magee, and 
everybody feels sad when a dark cloud comes in their 
lives ; that is, they feel sad for a time, they cannot help 
it; even the best person in the world can’t help it. Why, 
even Dr. Andrews, our minister, you know, was so sad 
when his wife and baby died that he could not preach, 
and had to go away for a good many weeks. But God 
helped him to get used to it, and the best way He helps 
us is to make us think of other things. If we thought 
of that one trouble all the time, we could n’t stand it. 
Why, Dr. Andrews said sometimes it makes him feel so 
happy, just to come out and stand among the trees and 
look at the beautiful sky, and hear the birds sing. 
Just to live in such a beautiful world alone ought to 
make one happy, he said. Just as you said you felt 
this morning when you came out in the sunlight. 

“ Would n’t it be dreadful if the sun went away and 
never shone on us again, and it was always night? And 
of course no trees or flowers or grass would grow, and 
how could we live? You see, we must have night and 
day too in our hearts ; if it was always day, and the sun 
never hid itself, we should grow selfish. The night-time 
to us, you know, is when our troubles come, and it is 
impossible, Dr. Andrews said, for any one to be very 
good who has not gone through some trials in this 
world. They do not see it at the time, but afterwards 
they do, because they have been made better for having 
them. You will be better and so will I, after this, Mrs. 
Magee, even if we don’t feel so now. But we won’t 
talk any more about it, and then we won’t feel so badly. 
I want to tell you all about a blind man I became 
acquainted with in the city. Dr. Andrews has gone to 


1 1 6 The Story of a Little Poet 

hunt him up to-day, and find out all about him; and if 
he is a good man, we are going to have him out to 
Beechwood to spend the day.” 

“ As tinder and good as an angel’s is yer heart, 
Masther Paul, to be afther thinkin’ av the loikes av us 
poor folks an’ givin’ us a bit av pleasure whiniver yez 
kin, and nary minister could praich the loikes av that 
sarmen yez be after given me just now: faith, an’ Oi 
would niver want to go to the Church if it ’s praichin’ the 
loike av that Oi could hear ivery day. It ’s clear yer make 
things same to old Sarah, ’bout the night and day, and 
the clouds that come, which manes our trubles, but the 
loight come afther the clouds just as thrue as yer say, 
Masther Paul. 

“ Where did yez iver foind the poor blind mon yez be 
afther shpakin’ aboot? ” 

Paul then told her the whole story of the blind organ- 
grinder and Moll, as they slowly walked up to the house. 
Roy had taken the basket to his mother to select some 
articles from it, as was her custom, and she was down 
in the path waiting for the pedler when Paul and Sarah 
arrived at the house. 

“ Pat has been looking for you, Master Paul, and wants 
you at the stables,” said Hulda, the nurse-maid, as Paul 
approached. 

“ I wonder what he wants,” he thought, as he walked 
off, leaving the pedler with his mother. “ I guess he 
feels lonely, and wants to have a little talk. Poor old 
Pat ! I feel sorry for him, I do. I wish we could take 
him with us.” 

He had not taken many steps when he met Pat. 

“ Oi was lookin’ out fer yez, Masther Paul, to come 
say good-by to Ned and Dollie. Yez know the other 


The Story of a Little Poet 1 17 

hosses have been sold an’ gone, and a gintlemin is afther 
takin’ Ned and Dollie this minute.” 

“ Oh, Pat ! ” exclaimed Paul, clasping his hands, “ Ned 
and Dollie sold, did you say? Why didn’t you tell me 
before? I never thought about giving them up; and 
Ned, Pat, how can I say good-by to him ! Why did n’t 
you tell me about this before, so I could try and get 
used to it? ” 

“ Oi wus not aboot, Masther Paul, whin the others wus 
sold, an’ did n’t meself know Ned and Dollie would be 
afther lavin’, till Aleck told me this mornin’ ; and Oi 
knows how yez love old Ned, and the baby her little 
pony, so Oi wint sthraight to find yez. The baby wus in 
the garden, an’ Oi tek her oop in me arms, and carried 
her to the sthables where her Dollie wus sthandin’ ready 
to go wid the gintlemin, and Oi told her she must say 
good-by to her pet, fer going away it wus never to kum 
back, and, oh, me bye, it made me heart sick to see her, 
the blessid darlint. Oi niver afore see the loikes av her 
grafe, an’ it ’s there she is this minit, and won’t lave the 
pony. See phwat yez kin do wid her, and don’t be afther 
gravin’ yerself fer old Ned, me bye, fer yez know phwat 
yez promised, — to be a brave soldier in this here battle, 
— an’ Oi knows yez will kape your promise?” 

“ I am trying all the time, Pat, to keep that promise ; 
but that was about the other battle. I did n’t know any- 
thing of this one, and it takes time to get used to a new 
one,” he said, in a trembling voice, and making a des- 
perate effort to keep the tears back. 

He was not at all prepared for this blow, so is it any 
wonder he had to stand for a while and try to compose 
himself, screened by the trees and shrubbery, before he 
advanced to take up so sad a duty, especially to have 


1 1 8 The Story of a Little Poet 

witnesses to the sad parting with Ned, that he loved more 
than any horse they ever had? He had been his daily 
companion always. His father rode him for some years 
before he married. He was always gentle and quiet, and 
the children could be trusted with him. Paul said he 
believed Ned understood every word he spoke. He was 
at any rate as intelligent as it was possible for a horse 
to be. 

Grace’s little pony, Dollie, had been bought for her 
just a year before, and she had become very much 
attached to her. 

“ It ’s a sorry day, Oi knows, Masther Paul,” said Pat, 
patting him on the shoulder, while he still stood, making 
no effort to advance toward the stables, hesitating to see 
baby Grace’s grief and old Ned, fearing he would not 
succeed in controlling himself. “ But niver moind, 
niver moind, me bye,” continued Pat, “ if yez niver hev 
annoy heavier trubles than this, the world will go aisy 
wid yez, to be shure. Oi knows it ’s a hard foight fer 
yez, but cheer oop, cheer oop, an’ be the brave little 
mon yez allays wus.” 

Paul then heaved a sigh, straightened himself up, and 
said in a very determined voice, “ Pat, I am ready to go. 
I must act like a brave soldier a great many times before 
we leave Beechwood.” 

“ It ’s talkin’ loike a little gineral yez be now, Masther 
Paul,” said Pat, in rather a husky voice, and quickly 
dashing a tear from his eye, as he took a step back 
that Paul might not see. 

Notwithstanding all the courage he had mustered, it 
nearly gave way when he saw baby Grace standing on a 
chair, with her arms clasped about her pony’s neck, sob- 
bing and talking in a most endearing manner to her, 










The Story of a Little Poet 1 19 

while Ned stood before him, scraping the stones and 
shaking his head, as he always did when Paul approached 
him. 

“ Dear old Ned,” he said, stroking him fondly, and for 
just one instant buried his face in his mane. 

Mr. Stevens, the gentleman who had purchased the 
horses, was standing near, talking to Aleck and his 
coachman, and so touched was he at seeing baby Grace’s 
grief, he thought he would give her as much time as 
possible to say farewell to the pony. 

Paul would not trust himself to stay long by Ned ; and 
as a diversion to his own sad feelings, he quickly stepped 
over to baby Grace, to sympathize with her, and try to 
console her and coax her away. 

“ Oh, Bruver Paul,” she sobbed, “ come quick ! ’ey are 
dawn to take my Dollie away, an’ you won’t let them, 
will you?” 

Paul whispered something in her ear, to which she 
answered with louder sobs than ever, “ I don’t care if I 
do leave Beechwood, but I want to take my Dollie wiv 
me, don’t I, Dollie? ” she said, turning the pony’s head 
around and looking her full in the face, through the 
tears that were streaming down her cheeks, and waited 
as though sure of hearing her answer, “Yes.” 

“ Robin! Robin! won’t you listen to me?” implored 
Paul, throwing his arms around her, and speaking very 
low in a suppressed voice. “ You must not keep the 
gentleman waiting so long. He wants to take the ponies 
now, because he has bought them, and don’t you know 
it is awful hard for me to say good-by to Ned. Just 
think, I have known him all my life, and he has always 
been with me.” Here Paul’s voice grew very trembly 
and husky, for a lump arose in his throat, and his eyes 


I 20 


The Story of a Little Poet 

filled with tears, but he quickly recovered himself, gave 
a cough to clear his throat, and continued, “ Don’t you 
know it costs a good deal of money to keep horses, and 
poor father lost all his in the panic I told you about. It 
would make him feel so badly if he knew you were cry- 
ing about giving up Dollie, and that is the reason I 
won’t cry about Ned.” 

Baby Grace ceased crying now, and listened to all Paul 
said. She was beginning to feel ashamed of her actions, 
and to realize that it must be worse for Paul to give up 
Npd, and yet he would n’t cry like a baby. She glanced 
shyly now at Mr. Stevens, brushed away the tears, and 
said, “ I ’m awsul sorry old Ned is dawn, too, Bruver 
Paul, and I dess I has to leave er man take her if poor 
Farver has dot no more monies to buy her fings to 
eat.” 

“ I knew you would be good and brave, Robin. Don’t 
you think we are both brave people? ” 

“ ’Es, I fink we are,” said Grace, trying hard to keep 
up her courage, and deserve Paul’s praise. “ I will jes’ 
say dood-bye once adain, an’ en she ten doe,” and 
throwing her arms around the pony’s neck, she kissed 
and hugged her several times. 

Just then Mr. Stevens stepped over to the children 
and said kindly, “ I am very sorry you both feel so 
badly about parting with the horse and pony; and if it 
will be of any comfort to you, I will leave them here 
for two or three days longer.” 

“Oh, won’t ’at be nice, Bruver Paul?” said Grace, 
clapping her hands, and her face brightened up im- 
mediately. “ I ten have Dollie two or free days, an’ 
you ten have Ned.” But she soon resumed the woful 
expression when she saw no response in Paul’s face to 


I 2 I 


The Story of a Little Poet 

this kind offer, and heard him say, “ Oh, thank you, sir ! 
but I think it would be better to take them now.” 

“ I am perfectly willing to leave them, little fellow, if 
it will give either of you any pleasure,” continued Mr. 
Stevens. 

Paul hesitated a moment, and blinked his eyes, while 
Grace thought, “ Oh, I dess er man is dawn to coax 
him.” 

“ Tell him ’es, you will teep ’em for two or free days,” 
she whispered, leaning over and placing her arms 
around Paul’s neck, as she still stood on the chair. 

It was hard to refuse her, but Paul felt it would not 
be right to keep them, perhaps, if they were already 
sold ; so he straightened himself up, took a hand of 
Grace’s in each of his, and said quite firmly, “I am ever 
so much obliged to you, sir, but you must take them 
now. You see, it would be just as bad to-morrow, or 
the next day, or the next, and I would rather have it 
ended now.” 

“ If you feel that way about it, perhaps it is better 
that I should take them now; but I regret very much 
to be the one to cause you both such a sorrow. How- 
ever, the day may not be very far off when you both 
will have others you may think as much of as these.” 

Several times during this scene Pat was obliged to 
step behind a tree and wipe a tear from his eye, and he 
remarked to Mr. Stevens’ coachman, “It narely brakes 
me heart to see the childer partin’ wid ivery thing on 
the ould place.” 

“Now don’t cry any more, Robin,” whispered Paul. 
“You know he must take them, because he bought 
them, and they don’t belong to us any more.” 

They stood just as they were, and watched Aleck 


122 The Story of a Little Poet 

place the saddle on old Ned, for Mr. Stevens intended 
riding him, and his coachman was to drive Dollie, 
hitched to the little cart. Little Elsie Stevens, not 
much older than Grace, was waiting eagerly for her 
father’s return with the pony and little yellow cart he 
had told her he would bring back with him. 

“Bless your little heart! ” he said, stepping up close 
to Grace, and kissing her tear-stained face, “ it is cruel of 
me to take your pony away, and what a dreadful man 
you must think me. Is it not so, little one? ” 

“ Bruver Paul say it was the awsul pantic ’at turn, so 
’at ’s why the reason my farver has n’t dot any more 
monies to buy oats and hay wiv,’’ said Grace, shaking 
her head sorrowfully as it rested on Paul’s, and giving 
an occasional sob. 

Mr. Stevens’s heart was very much touched by the 
sad affair and the two pathetic faces, and he did not 
even smile as he kissed the little tear-stained face again, 
and then shook hands with Paul, who still stood very 
quiet and dignified, no one but Pat knowing just how 
great the struggle was he was undergoing, especially 
when he watched Mr. Stevens mount Ned. When his 
coachman jumped in the cart, he helped Grace down 
from the chair, and hand in hand they walked to the edge 
of the carriage road, and looked after them until they 
were lost to sight, then sadly walked away to talk about 
it all by themselves. 

Notwithstanding all this, Paul felt very happy that 
night when he laid his head on his pillow, happier, in 
fact, than he ever imagined he could feel, so soon after 
parting with old Ned. 

It was all owing to Dr. Andrews returning that even- 
ing with such good news of the organ-grinder. It was 


The Story of a Little Poet 123 

very interesting indeed to Paul to hear him tell all about 
his visit to the blind man’s home, and of all the good 
things he had learned of his character on inquiry. 

“ Say, Perseffer, what do you want an old blind organ- 
grinder out here for?” asked Roy, after Hulda had 
fixed them comfortably in their beds, and seated her- 
self in an adjoining room with some sewing. 

“ Oh, just because I want to give him a good time,” 
replied Paul. 

“ How can you make a blind man have a good 
time?” 

“ Why, easy. It will be having a good time for him 
to have enough to eat, and rest from his organ all day, 
and sit under shady trees, and row on the creek, and 
lots of other things I can do to make him have a good 
time.” 

“What day is he coming?” 

“ Next Thursday, if it is clear ; and if it rains, they will 
come the first clear day.” 

“ Have you got it down in your rememberandrum? ” 

“ No, I did n’t put it down, because I am sure I won’t 
forget. I shall be thinking about it nearly all the 
time.” 

“ Gee whiz ! Persef, suppozin’ he would be a picket 
pocket.” 

“ A what? ” 

“ A picket pocket, don’t you know, a thief, who 
pickets pockets, of course.” 

“ Oh, you mean one who picks pockets, I guess,” said 
Paul, laughing, but at the same time feeling very indig- 
nant that his friend should be accused of anything 
so dreadful. 

“ I know that Mr. Graves is no kind of a thief at all,” 


i 24 The Story of a Little Poet 

he said. “ Dr. Andrews found out all about him, and 
he is a very good man. You must help me give him a 
good time, Roy, and his little girl too, for she is coming 
with him. She has something the matter with her hip, 
Dr. Andrews said, and walks lame. Is n’t it dreadful 
when you think there are hundreds just like Mr. Graves 
and his little girl, and Moll? Why, the policeman told 
me that if he commenced once to hunt them all up, he 
would never stop, there are so many. That is worse to 
think about than leaving Beechwood. You must go to 
the station with me to meet them. Dr. Andrews is 
going in early to bring them out, and told me to be at 
the station with Ben and his two-seated carriage. You 
will go, won’t you, Roy?” 

No answer ; Roy was sound asleep. The last speech 
was too much for a sleepy, tired boy. He had no more 
time to think of blind organ-grinders, lame Hesters, or 
anything else. But the little poet and friend of the poor 
lay awake for a long time, thinking of them, and hoping 
the day would be clear and bright. 


CHAPTER X 


I T had been a month since the organ-grinder had 
received Paul’s letter, inviting both him and his 
daughter to Beechwood to spend the day. Hester was 
just preparing their evening meal when it was handed 
to her. At first she thought there must be some mis- 
take, for such a thing as a letter finding its way to 
their isolated and miserable home was something un- 
heard of. She sat down and spelled the words over 
and over again, in order to be quite sure. Yes, it 
must be for her father, she concluded, for that is his 
name, plain as can be, and the exact address, too. “ I 
wonder who could have sent it? ” she thought, as she 
turned it over and held it up to the light, vainly en- 
deavoring to penetrate its mysterious contents through 
the envelope. “ I better not open it until Father comes 
home; perhaps there might be some pleasant surprise 
for us both;” and so deciding, she arose and placed 
it safely back of the little iron clock on the mantel- 
shelf, then continued preparations for their simple 
meal. 

In one of the poorest neighborhoods in the city, and 
on the third floor of an old house that sheltered eight 
families, lived Hester Graves and her father. 

There was a time, just three years before, when 
they had lived quite comfortably, and Hester never 
knew what it was to be hungry. She was always deli- 


1 26 The Story of a Little Poet 

cate, having had hip disease from birth; but her 
mother had always given her the most tender and 
watchful care, so that her general health was in a 
fairly good condition those days, and she was able 
to attend school. Although she could not join in the 
romping plays with her companions, she was light- 
hearted and happy, and knew hardly a care. She lived 
over those days very often in her thoughts and tried to 
picture things as they were then. She could see her 
dear mother’s face bending over her to kiss her good- 
by as she was about to leave gayly for school ; and 
her father, strong and well, returning home in the 
evening from work with a bright face and cheery 
words; then all three sitting down to supper with as 
much wholesome food as they desired. It all seemed 
like a dream now, for so much had Hester suffered in 
both mind and body that it was to her like fifty, 
instead of three years, since those happy days. , 
Sickness came first to her father, through which his 
sight became so impaired that he was obliged to give 
up work entirely; then their little savings gradually 
dwindled away until they finally had to depend en- 
tirely on Mrs. Graves, who did embroidery for one of 
the large stores. Hester was obliged to leave school 
and assist as much as possible. There was the little 
house to be kept clean, meals to cook, and her father 
to be waited upon, for he required much attention. 
His mind never seemed to recover its normal condi- 
tion after his long illness, and that, together with 
being nearly blind, made him a great care and anxiety. 
So great indeed had been the shock to his system 
that he now looked like a very aged man. Hester 
often assisted her mother with the embroidery, it now 


The Story of a Little Poet 127 

being their only means of support. But it did not 
agree with her to be so much confined; she missed the 
daily walks and exercise in the open air, and the com- 
panionship of her little school friends. She began to 
lose her appetite, and her back and hip began to 
trouble her. 

Her mother noticed all this, and yet was powerless 
to make things easier. She was herself a very frail 
woman, and soon her health gave way entirely under 
the constant strain. She became low-spirited and 
extremely nervous; then a cough developed, causing 
her much distress and the loss of the needed rest at 
night. They had moved to cheaper quarters several 
times, and sold gradually most of their furniture. 

Then the dreadful day came when Mrs. Graves died 
from overwork. Then indeed did Hester nearly lose 
her courage, and wish that she too might be taken; 
but when she thought of her poor helpless father, she 
tried to banish that wish from her mind. “ There 
will be no one to take care of him if I go,” she 
thought, “and they will take him to the poorhouse.” 
A neighbor told Mr. Graves a few days after the 
funeral that he thought it would be a good idea for 
him to get a hand-organ. “ It is better than sitting all 
day thinking and doing nothing,” he said. “You will 
surely manage to pick up some pennies every day, and, 
if you say so, I will go see what I can get you; a 
second-hand one would answer every purpose.” 

This suggestion seemed to brighten Mr. Graves up 
wonderfully. “My poor little Hester!” he said 
mournfully, shaking his head, “I must do something 
for her; she cannot sew all day; and you are right, 
neighbor, it ’s better than sitting here doing nothing. 


128 The Story of a Little Poet 

I will do it ! I will do it! ” he continued, getting up 
and Walking the floor excitedly. 

Hester cried when he told her of his intentions; but 
he did not see the tears, his sight was too far gone for 
that. It was dreadful, Hester thought, for her poor 
sick father to sit on the sidewalk asking charity; and 
yet he seemed to be so pleased with the idea that it 
might be a good thing for him, after all. 

“It ’s the only thing to do, the only thing, Hester 
child,” he said. “Why didn’t they tell me before? 
Now I can get some money to buy bread for my poor 
little girl. I must do something. I can’t sit here 
any longer thinking; it is driving me crazy, Hester 
child. I shall be better then, yes, better,” he con- 
tinued, walking up and down the room and muttering 
to himself. 

After all, he was right; something had to be done, 
and it was better than starving, Hester concluded. 
For it seemed to her like some gigantic task just to 
prepare their simple meals and keep their two tiny 
rooms in order. 

The organ was purchased with money obtained by 
the sale of her mother’s watch. It was all they had 
left to sell of any value, so they parted with it, though 
it caused them both much sorrow. 

Hester now was lonelier than ever. Her father was 
away all day, carrying a crust with him for his midday 
meal. He was quite successful, however, and never 
a day passed that he did not bring home some 
change. It was a great relief to them both when they 
found that he could thus earn enough to pay their 
rent and to provide for the absolute necessities of their 
life. 


The Story of a Little Poet i 29 

Mr. Graves’s health seemed to improve somewhat 
upon taking up his monotonous occupation, and his 
spirits grew brighter, happy, doubtless, in the thought 
that he was doing something for his child. 

Hester was beginning to get accustomed to his occu- 
pation, and to feel perfectly resigned to it. 

She continued to embroider when she could, accord- 
ing to her strength; but her eyes were very weak, 
and for that reason she could not work steadily. 

And so it was just at this time a sweet message 
came one day to the little sufferer and her father, to 
bring a ray of sunshine to their hearts and to make 
them forget, for a time at least, their many miseries. 

She said nothing to her father the evening the won- 
derful letter arrived until they had finished their meal 
and the dishes were washed and put away; then she 
brought it out from behind the clock, and, taking a 
little stool, sat down by her father’s knee. 

“I have a surprise for you to-night,” she began. 
“Can you guess what it is?” 

The organ-grinder only shook his head in reply. 

“Why, a letter, Father; it came just before you 
returned,” and Hester placed it in his hand. 

“A letter for me, me, Hester child? Why, how 
strange! I don’t know who could send me one. But 
open it, and let us hear what is in it,” he said, hand- 
ing it back. 

Hester was just about to tear the envelope when her 
father suddenly clutched at her arm excitedly and said, 
“I do believe it is from that little child I told you 
about.” 

“Do you think so, Father? I never thought of him; 
it might be.” 


9 


130 The Story of a Little Poet 

The organ-grinder had indeed guessed right, — it 
was from Paul Arlington. 

The first thing Hester saw as its contents were 
brought forth was a photograph of a beautiful stone 
mansion, with grand old shade trees and sloping lawns. 
“Oh, Father!” she exclaimed, with great delight, “I 
wish you could see this sweet picture. But I will read 
the letter and find out what it all means.” 

Dear Mr. Graves, — Did you think I had forgotten you ? 
Well, I hav n’t, so I write this to tell you so. I have thought 
of you a great many times, and tried to get in to see you, but 
could n’t. I was not able to because since the day I became 
acquainted with you I have had great troubles, which I did not 
expect, and it took so much time to try and get used to them, 
and my grandma came to Beechwood to stay, so I could n’t 
go to visit her in Philadelphia, and everybody is so busy here 
they can’t find time to take me to the city, but I have talked 
to my mother about you, and when Dr. Andrews comes home, 
he is going in to see you and bring you and your little girl to 
Beechwood to spend the day. I know you will like it, for 
everybody does. It is so beautiful you could n’t help it. 
There are so many trees, birds, and flowers. You needn’t 
bother about your organ, just take a rest from it all day. I 
send you a picture of Beechwood, so your little girl can see 
it and tell you about it, only half of it is not there. 

Your very dear friend, 

Paul Arlington. 

For a moment neither Hester nor her father spoke 
a word after the letter was read. Hester bowed her 
weary head on her father’s knee, and he gently stroked 
the thick brown locks, then said in a husky voice, “ A 
whole day in the country; you ’re glad, ain’t you, 
Hester child? My poor, tired, little girl!” 






132 The Story of a Little Poet 

her father, trying to recall all the conversation that 
had passed between Paul and him. “ There’s some- 
thing wrong here, Hester child,” he said, touching his 
head. “ I can’t remember things as I used to; some- 
thing gone, — gone, my little girl, never to come back 
again,” and he shook his head sorrowfully. It always 
made Hester feel very sad when her father talked in 
this strain. It was so pitiful to see him struggling 
with his weak memory. 

“You are not very well, that is all, Father dear,” 
she said encouragingly. “You know you never re- 
covered entirely from that long sickness; but you are 
getting stronger every day, and soon you can remem- 
ber everything just as you used to. Don’t you re- 
member? Now think. The little boy asked you what 
your name was, and where you lived, and who I was, 
when you said Hester lived with you. Then he said 
he was so glad he got acquainted with you, and was 
coming to see you sometime.” 

“Oh, yes, yes! now I know,” said the poor old 
man. 

“Let me tell you about the picture, Father. I wish 
you could see it. The house is like a palace I have 
seen in fairy books. It has wide porches, and vines 
are growing over them, and there are great large trees, 
some as high as the house, and I can see beautiful 
flower-beds and — ” 

“Yes, yes, Hester child,” interrupted her father, 
leaning back in the chair with his eyes closed; “your 
mother is there now.” 

“Mother there?” repeated Hester. “Why, no, 
Father, she is not there. She is in heaven, you 
know;” and Hester looked up at him with a puzzled 


The Story of a Little Poet 1 3 3 

expression, then realized that his mind must be wan- 
dering a little, as it did occasionally. He was think- 
ing of his wife, and that she had gone to a palace such 
as Hester was describing, where she was awaiting him. 

Hester took his hand again, and said, “Mother is 
not on earth any more, Father; don’t you remember?” 

“No, not on earth, Hester child, not on earth,” he 
repeated. 

“But listen, Father dear,” she continued, trying to 
arouse him. “This beautiful place I am telling you 
about is here on earth, where the little boy lives who 
sent the letter, and who talked so kindly to you that 
day; and just think that we are going there to spend 
a whole day.” 

“Yes, I hear, Hester child, and I would like to be 
with that little one again before I die. He will be 
there, won’t he? And we will be so happy.” 

He seemed to return from his wanderings now, and 
they talked for a long time about the beautiful picture, 
and wondered how soon the kind gentleman would 
come for them. Hester hoped it would be very soon, 
especially for her poor father’s sake; but day after day 
passed and still no gentleman made his appearance, 
and no letter to explain why, until finally she began 
to lose all hopes of such a thing ever coming to pass. 
Her father, however, still hoped on. “Something has 
happened, Hester child, I am sure,” he would say, “or 
he would have kept his word ; but he ’ll come yet.” 

One morning in July Hester sat by the window, try- 
ing to work on a piece of embroidery. It was a very 
hot day, and their room being next to the roof, the 
heat was almost unbearable. There was no cooler 
place to which she could go, unless in the narrow 


1 34 The Story of a Little Poet 

street among the rough, noisy children, who only went 
indoors to eat and sleep. She shrank from coming in 
contact with these children; it was enough to hear 
their noise and coarse language from her window; 
besides, her lameness made her very sensitive and 
afraid to appear among them for fear of being ridi- 
culed, and so there was no alternative for poor Hester 
but to keep in her hot room, going out only when nec- 
essary to make purchases for their simple meals. 

Since the warm weather had come, she was feeling 
unusually weak and languid. The heat had prostrated 
her to such an extent that it was as much as she could 
do some days to keep on her feet. She had done very 
little embroidery for several weeks past, for her eyes 
had become so weak and painful it was impossible to 
work for any length of time. Then her back and hip 
ached constantly, making her restless and nervous 
and unable at times to sit up straight. Her nerves 
were breaking down from the strain she was con- 
stantly under, and every sudden noise startled her, 'and 
her heart would palpitate, beating so hard and fast 
that she thought frequently she was dying; and she 
would have prayed that it might be so, had it not been 
for her father. 

As she strove to make some headway with the work 
that should have been finished some weeks before, she 
was thinking again about the letter and her great dis- 
appointment. 

She had given up all hopes of ever hearing from the 
little boy again, or seeing the kind gentleman he said 
he would send. She often wished now that the letter 
had never come. She tried to console herself with 
the thought that it was better, after all, for neither she 


The Story of a Little Poet 135 

nor her father had any clothes suitable to wear to such 
a place, and every one would stare at them, and per- 
haps laugh at their shabby appearance. 

She was seated on a low chair which her father had 
made for her before his illness, with cushions of tick- 
ing tied to the back, seat, and arms. In bygone days 
the ticking was never visible, for her mother always 
kept the cushions neatly covered with bright figured 
chintz; but that had worn out a long time ago, and 
Hester generally kept an old shawl thrown over the 
chair to protect the ticking, for if that wore away she 
had no money to replace it. She drew the little chair 
as close up to the open window as she could get it, but 
not a breath of air seemed to be stirring. At times 
she felt as if she were suffocating, and the stinging 
pains in her eyes forced her to close them frequently 
and lean her aching head back on the chair, while 
her hands fell listlessly in her lap. Then a drowsy 
feeling would come over her, and she thought she 
should take a short nap. Perhaps it would make her 
feel better to try. She had composed herself for a 
little sleep, when suddenly she was aroused by a knock 
on the door, which made her tremble from head to 
foot. What ! what if it should be the gentleman ? was 
her first and only thought. With fast-beating heart 
she arose and tottered to the door, and with trembling 
hands turned the knob; and there stood before her the 
finest-looking gentleman, Hester thought, that she had 
ever seen in her life. 

“ Does Mr. Graves live here? ” he asked pleasantly. 

Hester could not find her voice immediately, so great 
was the emotion within, but in answer she opened the 
door wide and nodded her head, which all meant to 


136 The Story of a Little Poet 

Dr. Andrews that he did live there, and to walk in. 
Poor child ! she was so weak and nervous she could 
not bear the least excitement without trembling in a 
sort of nervous spasm. 

Dr. Andrews saw it all at a glance, and understood. 
He was accustomed to going among the poor, and was 
a good judge of their characters. The crippled child, 
pale and thin, standing before him in her physical 
weakness, aroused his deepest sympathies. He noticed 
that she was neat and that the room was the same. 

“Here is one of God’s little suffering ones almost 
ready to be taken to Himself,” he thought, as he 
stepped in the room and tried to make the poor trem- 
bling child feel at her ease. 

“Are you Mr. Graves’s daughter?” he asked, as 
Hester handed him a chair and sat on the edge of one 
herself. 

“Yes, sir,” she now managed to reply. 

“And your name is Hester, is it not? ” 

“Yes, sir,” she replied again. 

“Well, Hester, I have come to as,k you and your 
father out to Beechwood to spend a day. I believe 
you received a letter from my little friend some time 
ago, telling you all about it.” 

Hester nodded her head. 

“ He met your father, I believe, and has taken a 
great fancy to him, and is very anxious to see him 
again before he leaves Beechwood for his Western 
home; and he thought, too, it would give you both a 
great deal of pleasure to leave the hot, dusty city and 
spend the day in the country, so he has sent me to tell 
you to come next Thursday, if that day will be satisfac- 
tory to you both.” 


The Story of a Little Poet 137 

“ Oh, thank you, sir ! ” said Hester, growing more 
composed every minute. “Any day will suit us.” 

“Very well, then, I will call for you early next 
Thursday morning; and if it should rain, I will call 
the next day.” 

“Have you no sisters or brothers? and do you live 
alone with your father? ” 

“I never had any sisters or brothers; and since 
Mother died, there is just Father and me.” 

“And do you do the housework and take care of 
your father?” 

“Yes, I do what I can,” replied Hester, the tears 
coming to her eyes as she glanced around the room, 
ashamed of its look of poverty, and wondered what 
sort of a girl he would think her, to be able to take no 
better care of her father than to allow him to sit on a 
street corner all day asking charity. 

“You are a brave little girl, Hester,” he said, wip- 
ing off the beads of perspiration that formed on his 
forehead, and wondering how the little sufferer ever 
managed to exist so long in such an atmosphere. 
“You are not strong enough for so many cares, I am 
afraid, little girl.” 

“What is that? ” he continued suddenly, seeing the 
piece of embroidery on the old cushioned chair by the 
window. 

“That is my work, sir; but I am not able to do very 
much on account of my back and eyes. If I were only 
strong I could make a good deal of money, and Father 
would not have to be on the streets all day,” and as 
she spoke, Hester’s eyes filled with tears again. She 
clasped her hands nervously together and followed Dr. 
Andrews as he rose and walked over to examine the work. 


138 The Story of a Little Poet 

The tears almost came to his own eyes when he saw 
the fine stitches, and thought of the labor, the suffer- 
ing, each one had caused this little martyr. 

“ I should think this was very tedious work, and 
hard on the strongest eyes,” he said, turning toward 
Hester, who now stood close beside him with her 
hands still clasped and her eyes filled with unshed 
tears. 

“It is fine work; but I love to do it when I am 
well,” she said. “I only wish I could do more, be- 
cause I could help Father so much. He suffers more 
than I do, for he is blind, you see, and sick besides.” 

“Well ! I do not wonder at all that your back aches, 
my poor child, or that your eyes have given out. 
Take this chair,” he said. “You do not look strong 
enough to stand.” 

Hester did so, and Dr. Andrews drew up one of the 
wooden ones and sat close beside her. 

“Now, my dear child,” he went on, “I want you to 
look upon me as your friend, also the littlfc boy who 
sent me; and if you do just as I tell you, it will never 
again be so hard for either you or your father. First 
of all ” (taking out his pocket-book and handing her 
a ten-dollar bill), “ I never want you to take another 
stitch on this piece of work; then I want you to accept 
this money, and buy all the good things to eat you 
desire, and any clothes you are in need of. Spend it 
all between now and Thursday, and by that time my 
little friend Paul and I will have things arranged for 
your future. I will be here early Thursday morning, 
so cheer up, little Hester; do not be downcast, for 
God has sent some one to look after you now that you 
are ill and unable to work,” 


The Story of a Little Poet 139 

Poor Hester was again too much surprised to speak. 
A ten-dollar bill to spend right away for clothes and 
food, and not a cent to be saved ! It was like a great 
fortune to her, and she lay back among the cushions 
in a little limp heap, her joy too deep for words, 
while the kind face still bent over her, speaking such 
encouraging words, — words which seemed to be grad- 
ually lifting her out of her misery and suffering, and 
which made the bare hot room lose all its dreariness. 

“ Do not exert yourself any more than is absolutely 
necessary; drink plenty of good milk, and I am sure 
by Thursday you will be greatly improved.” 

“Oh, I shall not mind anything now,” said Hester, 
the tears dropping on her cheeks. “You have made 
me very happy, sir, but somehow I can’t help crying.” 

“That is all right, my child. You need not be 
ashamed of the tears. They are often a great relief 
to overtaxed nerves and a tired little brain; but soon 
they will all disappear, and you will be so happy and 
strong there will be no desire to shed them.” Then 
Dr. Andrews made his way down the narrow rickety 
stairs, while Hester closed the door and sought again 
the cushioned chair, to think about it all. The tears 
were now streaming down her face, and she made no 
attempt to check them. They seemed to be an outlet 
to all the pent-up emotion she had been struggling 
against for months, yes, and even years. All her sor- 
rows were piled up like a great mountain against her 
heart, almost crushing it with its awful weight; but it 
seemed now to be melting away with the tears, and a 
feeling of peace and rest was gradually pervading her 
whole being. It was a comfort just to sit and enjoy 
her own happy thoughts. She felt that her future was 


140 The Story of a Little Poet 

now in this good man’s hands, and there was nothing 
to look forward to but happiness. Finally her tired 
eyes closed, she sighed, and unconsciously fell asleep 
with the precious bill clasped in her hands. 

For two hours the weary child slept on; then she 
awoke suddenly with a start and looked about her, 
puzzled for an instant, then it all came back to her. 
No, it was not a dream, for there was the bill still in 
her hands; and she smoothed it out carefully, folded 
it as tenderly as though it had life and could feel, 
while she planned all the purchases she would make 
that very day. 

She felt refreshed after the long nap, and the pain, 
in her back and hip was scarcely noticed, just because 
her heart was light, and she had so many pleasant 
things to occupy her thoughts. “First of all, I will 
buy a good supper for Father,” she thought. “He 
would get stronger much faster if I was only able to 
buy him plenty of good food every day. I will buy 
him a new hat and shirt, and myself a new calico dress 
to wear to the beautiful mansion. I have not been 
so happy for years,” and she arose to start out imme- 
diately to make all these purchases. 

She took down her old straw hat from a nail ; then 
with her basket, and the precious bill laid carefully in 
the folds of a worn-out wallet her father had carried 
years ago, off she went, locking the door carefully 
behind her. 

She decided not to make her purchases in the little 
shops in that neighborhood, as had always been her 
custom. No! for once she would get the best that 
could be bought, and give her father a treat. She 
thought very little of herself. Her greatest delight 


The Story of a Little Poet 141 

in it all was thinking of the pleasure and comfort 
that her purchases would give her father. She could 
scarcely wait to tell him of the kind gentleman’s 
visit. 

Meat, potatoes, butter, bread, coffee, and sugar were 
among the provisions piled up in the old basket. 

The storekeeper gazed at the child, then at the 
bill, in a very suspicious manner. He could not 
understand how such a poorly clad child should be in 
possession of so much money. He stepped behind 
the desk and examined it carefully for a minute. It 
was no counterfeit, he was sure of that. “ She must 
.have stolen it,” was what he concluded; but having no 
evidence of this, he, of course, could not accuse her, 
so he handed her the change that remained after the 
purchases, and said nothing. 

She never imagined the storekeeper’s suspicions, 
however, or noticed his gaze, or the remarks made 
about her. She was too much taken up with her own 
thoughts to notice anything. 

Before she was halfway home, she found the basket 
too heavy for her to carry without resting. She had 
been unconsciously changing it from one arm to the 
other, and her trembling knees almost gave way from 
under her before she realized how weak she was. 
Her arms, too, ached so that it was impossible to hold 
the basket another minute. She placed it on the 
sidewalk and sat down on a step close beside it, pant- 
ing for breath and wiping the perspiration from her 
face with the calico apron which she wore to hide the 
patches in her dress. 

After this she could only walk a short distance at a 
time; and when she finally reached the house and 


142 The Story of a Little Poet 

slowly climbed the two flights of stairs, she nearly 
fainted with the exertion. She managed to lock the 
door after her, then sank down on the floor beside the 
basket, too exhausted to move for some minutes. 

As she recovered somewhat, it suddenly occurred to 
her that she had eaten nothing since early in the morn- 
ing, and it was now three in the afternoon. As soon 
as she gathered sufficient strength she arose and made 
herself a cup of coffee and ate some bread and butter. 
She never ate sufficiently at any time, and was really 
suffering for want of proper nourishment. 

After eating, she lay on her cot in the little closet- 
room to gain as much strength as possible before pre- 
paring the evening meal, which was to be a regular 
feast. 

It was an evening long to be remembered. The 
organ-grinder was nearly wild with joy when he heard 
Hester’s story. He laughed and cried by turns, rubbed 
his hands excitedly, and patted Hester every few 
minutes, thinking chiefly of her happiness. 

“Say that part again, Hester child, what the kind 
gentleman said about it not being so hard for you any 
more.” 

“Not only for me, but for you too, Father. He 
said, ‘ I want you to look upon me as your friend, 
also the little boy who sent me; and if you do as I 
say, it will never again be so hard for you and your 
father. 

“And that means that he will see after my little 
girl and take care of her after I am gone.” 

“No, no, Father; do not talk so. He meant it for 
you even more than he did me, for the little boy, you 
know, never saw me, and he sent him to help you. 


The Story of a Little Poet 143 

You must not think of dying, Father, for God has sent 
some one now to help us, and perhaps we shall have 
many happy days together before you die.” 

But the old man did not seem to notice her words. 
He had but one idea of Dr. Andrews’s visit, and that 
was that he had come to take his little child out of her 
dark and lonely life, and that now he could die in 
peace. It was only to take care of her that he had 
struggled to live. 

“ I am ready to go if you are cared for, Hester 
child,” he said, taking his hand from hers and strok- 
ing her hair. 

“Oh, Father dear! won’t you listen to me? If you 
talk that way I shall not want to live either, and I 
won’t be happy, after all. I thought this would be 
such a nice evening, and you would be so happy. 
Won’t you try for my sake to live? It makes me sad 
to hear you talk so, now that everything is so bright. 
There ’s our good supper waiting, too, all a present 
from the kind gentleman. Come, let me take your 
chair over, and please don’t think those gloomy 
thoughts any more. I know you are hungry, and 
everything is all ready.” 

He arose and Hester assisted him to the table, cut 
his meat, mashed his potato, then sat down near him, 
talking all the while as cheerfully as possible. 

When she said it made her unhappy to hear him 
talk about dying, and that she would wish to die too 
if he did not try to live, he aroused himself and made 
an effort to be more cheerful for her sake. “I ’ll say 
no more about leaving her,” he thought. “Of course 
it makes her feel sad; I always forget that.” He 
tried now to interest himself in all she said, and show 


144 The Story of a Little Poet 

his enjoyment of the bountiful meal she had taken 
such pleasure in preparing. 

“That ’s a good meal, Hester child, and I thank the 
kind giver with all my heart,” he said, pushing back 
his chair. 

As quickly as possible Hester cleared the things 
away, and took her accustomed seat on the stool at her 
father’s knee. Then they talked of Paul Arlington, — 
the kind minister he had sent, and of all the happiness 
in store for them. The photograph of Beechwood was 
brought out again and talked over, and Paul’s letter 
read and re-read. Hester was rejoiced to note the 
change in her father and to see him act as though he 
was just as pleased as she was in anticipation of the 
great pleasure in store for them. 

“Just think, Father dear, only a little while longer, 
then we shall stand on the cool green grass in the 
country. The air will be so cool and sweet, and 
maybe they will let me bring some flowers home to 
make our room look bright and pretty. Do you think 
they will ? ” 

“They will; they will, my child.” 

“You will try to get well, won’t you, P'ather, now 
that help has come? You don’t want to leave your 
little girl all alone in the world. I have no one but 
you now, and you must keep on trying to get well and 
strong if you love me. ” 

“I will try, Hester child, I will try,” he replied 
fondly, determined to say nothing more, if he could 
help it, to put a damper on her new happiness. 

There was no little girl so happy as crippled Hester 
that night! “I know Father will get stronger now,” 
she thought. “ He is trying to be more cheerful, and 


The Story of a Little Poet 145 

when he has plenty to eat, and knows that I am looked 
after, perhaps that cloud will disappear entirely from 
his mind, and he will be able to talk and think, just as 
he used to.” Soon Hester fell asleep, and found her- 
self in her dreams walking by a beautiful stream with 
her hand in her father’s. Flowers were blooming 
and beautiful birds were carolling among the leafy 
boughs, and her father said, “See, Hester child, isn’t 
it beautiful? and to think we shall always dwell here.” 
Then she turned and looked up in his face, and was 
amazed at the transformation. Had he been touched 
by a magic wand? For he looked just as he looked 
years ago, before his illness. The same thick, wavy 
brown hair in place of the long, thin white locks. 
His face was round and full with the glow of health, 
and, best of all, his eyes were open, clear and bright, 
and full of intelligence, and he was looking at her, and 
able to see all that she was enjoying in this wonder- 
land. The pain had left her back and hip entirely, 
and she walked with a firm step, for no suffering ever 
came to the land of Beechwood they had just entered. 
Before them, leading the way, walked a beautiful boy, 
with golden hair that glistened in the sunbeams like 
spun silk. Now and then he turned to say something 
in a sweet, silvery voice. “This is the way, come right 
on ; it is still more beautiful just above, and you will 
never get tired walking here,” he said, “for no other 
land is as fair as Beechwood.” 

Hester and her father gazed at the face in wonder 
and admiration. Hester wished that it were always 
turned toward them ; it was just such a face as she 
imagined angels had, — the clear white skin, the won- 
derful eyes, full of love and sympathy, and the golden 

10 


146 The Story of a Little Poet 

hair like a halo about his head. On, on he led them, 
through one enchanting scene after another, until 
finally Hester’s slumber grew deeper and the vision 
slowly vanished away; and she knew no more until 
the bright rays of the morning sun streamed in the 
little window and awoke her. She arose, feeling 
stronger and more refreshed than she remembered 
having felt for a long time. 


CHAPTER XI 


W HEN Paul opened his eyes on that long looked 
for morning, the first thing he did was to run to 
the window, throw the shutters open wide, and step out- 
side on the little balcony, to be quite sure of there being 
no indication of a black cloud, though he had seen the 
sunbeams playing on the walls of his room when in bed. 

He stood still for a moment, searching the sky in all 
directions through the green leaves that covered the 
balcony, and they made a beautiful framework around 
the white figure, with loose wavy ringlets blowing in 
the fresh morning breeze. “ I do not think it could 
be finer,” he thought, his eyes sparkling with pleasure, 
and clasping his hands on the vine-covered rail in 
ecstasy. The breeze carried with it the scent of new- 
mown hay, making the air deliciously fragrant. He 
listened to the birds and watched them fly from tree to 
tree, some with a fat worm for their nestlings. Groups 
of cows lay here and there in the fields, lazily chewing 
their cud, and the water in the creek beyond sparkled in 
places where the bright morning sun shone full upon it. 

Altogether, Paul thought it was one of the most beau- 
tiful days he had ever seen, and he was sure that the 
organ-grinder and his daughter would be charmed with 
dear old Beechwood. 

Stepping back into the room, he began hastily to 
dress, and called Roy, who still lay soundly sleeping. 


148 The Story of a Little Poet 

“ Come! please hurry, there’s lots to do before Mr. 
Graves comes.” 

Roy yawned, rubbed his eyes, looked at Paul for a 
moment through half-closed lids, then gradually they 
closed tightly again, and took another short nap. 

“ I say, come, get awake, Roy, and don’t be so lazy,” 
continued Paul, going to the bed and shaking him. 
“ You will be late, and you are going with me to the 
station, you know.” 

“ It is too early, Persef; the blind man has n’t had his 
breakfast yet,” said Roy, drowsily. 

“ Oh, yes, he has. Organ-grinders get up early, and 
I am sure he is waiting now for Dr. Andrews.” 

It was not long before both were dressed in their 
sailor suits, which Roy had suggested wearing, because 
they intended to take their guests rowing on the 
creek. 

“ He will think we are real sailors, Persef, and we ’ll 
sing our sailor song you made, won’t we? ” 

“ You forget that he is blind, Roy, and cannot see 
the suits.” 

“ But his little girl can, and she will tell him all about 
them. I bet he’ll think it’s a jolly picnic, anyhow, even 
if he can’t see, won’t he? ” 

“ I think he will,” replied Paul. 

“ Dr. Andrews said he was n’t a picket pocket, after 
all, did n’t he?” 

“ Yes, he found out all about him, and he is a very 
good man, but I knew it before. I could tell by his 
face.” 

“ Why did n’t you let him bring his organ out, Per- 
sef? I like organs,” said Roy, as later on they sped 
along the road toward the station. 


The Story of a Little Poet 149 

“ Oh, well, you see, he plays the organ every day 
except Sunday; and he must be tired of it, and it 
would n’t rest him a bit if he had to play it all day here; 
besides, it is too heavy for him to carry such a distance, 
and I want him to have a happy day once, and never 
think of the old organ. What do you think, Roy, about 
this secret ? They are never going back to the city 
again to live ; but Glenwood Home is always after to- 
day to be their home, and won’t they be glad when 
they hear about it?” 

“ To always live at Glenwood Home ! ” exclainled 
Roy. “ Why, Persef, I did n’t know before it was a blin- 
asylun [blind asylum].” 

“ Well, it is n’t ; but then you see they could n’t take 
Hester without him, because he is all alone, and sick, 
and may not live very much longer, and they thought 
it a shame to separate them, and Dr. Andrews and I 
talked it over with the Managers, and they all agreed 
to take him and do what they could for him.” 

“ What do you think he is, Perseffer, a Presbyterient, 
a Comregrational, a Biscoble, a Democrack, or a Pub- 
lican ?” 

“ I have n’t asked him yet about his religion, but I 
think he ’s a Quaker,” replied Paul, “ because he looks 
something like one. He wore a white high hat, and he 
had no neck-tie or collar on, and you know the Qua- 
kers always dress very plainly, but he was such a poor 
plain one.” 

“ He must be a funny-looking old fellow, I think, 
Persef,” said Rdy, bursting forth in one of his merry 
peals, as he imagined the organ-grinder’s appearance 
from Paul’s description. 

He was becoming very much interested in Paul’s 


150 The Story of a Little Poet 

wonderful blind man, as the time approached for his 
arrival. 

“ Why don’t he put an abbertisement in the paper? 
Maybe he could get something better to do than playing 
an organ all day,” continued Roy. 

“ I guess he never thought of that,” replied Paul ; 
“ then maybe he had no money to pay for it.” 

“ I did n’t know you had to pay for abbertisements, 
Persef. Why, I thought anybody could have one put 
in for nothing.” 

They had about five minutes to wait when they arrived 
at the station. Paul fastened Ben to the post, then 
they walked to the front platform to watch for the train. 
Paul stood perfectly still, busy with his thoughts, blink- 
ing his eyes very fast, and his little heart under the 
sailor blouse was actually palpitating with joy in antici- 
pation of the great plan so long talked about, which was 
now almost realized. He did not pay much attention to 
Roy, who was talking continuously, laughing and jump- 
ing about the platform, too full of animal spirits to keep 
still even for a moment. Every one turned to look at 
the two beautiful boys in their sailor suits, with long 
trousers, Paul’s of dark blue, with hat to match, and 
Roy’s of white duck, with bands of blue, and hat of the 
same. Paul’s clear white skin and golden hair were set 
off to perfection by the dark blue. His face, with its 
delicately moulded features and an expression full of 
thoughtfulness and intelligence, invariably attracted the 
passer-by, while Roy was equally attractive, as he capered 
about the platform, full of life and mischievousness, his 
eyes fairly dancing with merriment, his happy nature 
reflected in every feature of his face and every move- 
ment of his body. 















The Story of a Little Poet 151 

“ Here it comes ! Here it comes ! ” shouted Roy, as 
the train made its appearance around a bend. But 
Paul stood still, his heart beating faster than ever as the 
train slowed up, and he eagerly scanned the faces of 
the passengers as they appeared on the platform. 

“ There they are ! ” again shouted Roy, pointing to 
the last car, where Dr. Andrews was helping the blind 
man down the steps. 

Then they both ran to meet them. Paul stepped up 
to the blind man, and taking his hand said, — 

“ How are you, Mr. Graves? I am very glad to see 
you. This is my brother Roy,” at which Roy ap- 
proached, took his extended hand, and eyed him very 
curiously. 

“ This is Hester, Paul,” said Dr. Andrews; and Paul 
stepped up immediately to her, and politely held out 
his hand, which Hester grasped, making a little courtesy 
at the same time. 

“ I am very glad to see you too, Hester,” said Paul. 

Then Dr. Andrews led the way to the carriage, with 
his arm in that of the blind man’s, Paul followed his 
example and did the same to Hester, thinking she too 
needed assistance as well as her father, for he noticed 
immediately how frail she was, and how she limped at 
every step. 

Hester gazed about her in wonder. It was so 
strange, so wonderful, to have any one willing to go to 
so much trouble for them, perfect strangers, and so 
poor and friendless. She appeared to be dazed by it 
all, as well as her father. 

Paul noticed that the organ-grinder’s old white high 
hat had been replaced by a soft brown felt, and that he 
actually had a collar and neck-tie on. 


152 The Story of a Little Poet 

Every one at the station stood for a moment to 
watch the strange procession Dr. Andrews was lead- 
ing to his carriage. 

“ There goes Dr. Andrews with some of his poor,” 
remarked a lady. 

“Yes, and they say little Paul Arlington is as much 
interested in them as he is,” remarked another. 

“ I hear he is training that little fellow to take his 
place at some future day,” said a gentleman. “Just 
look how careful he is of that little cripple.” 

Roy came up in the rear, eying first one, then the 
other, with the greatest curiosity. 

Though Dr. Andrews and the boys talked and 
laughed all the way home, pointing out the places of 
special interest, and trying in every possible way to 
draw the two guests on the back seat into conversation, 
it seemed almost impossible to do so. Hester only 
bowed her head in reply, and so did her father; the 
two sat with hands clasped in each other’s, and listened 
attentively, while Hester looked at the lovely scenery 
as they rolled along. 

Hester thought she never in her life saw such faces 
as those of the two boys in front of her, and she 
watched them every time they turned to speak. She 
had come to the conclusion long ago that the world 
was a cruel, cold place for the poor to live in; that the 
rich were all selfish and heartless, and thought only of 
themselves and their own comfort and pleasures, but 
her opinion had undergone a decided change now, and 
she wondered why this boy should have spoken so 
kindly to her father, and planned such a pleasure for 
them, and why this gentleman had put himself to so 
much trouble on their account. When Paul turned to 


The Story of a Little Poet 153 

speak, his face caused the dream of a few nights before 
to rise up vividly before her. Surely it was very much 
like the face that she saw then ; and was he not leading 
them now as he did then, away from the narrow dark 
little world they had lived in, to one which was beauti- 
ful, bright, and peaceful? 

Once the carriage rumbled over a bridge, and Hester 
leaned out to look at the pretty fall just above, as it 
came tumbling down the rocks to the stream beneath. 
“ It is the same stream that runs through our place,” he 
said ; “ but it is prettier at Beechwood. We have two 
waterfalls there, and you will see them after a while.” 

How cool and refreshing was the sound of the splash- 
ing waters to the poor tired child, and how lovely it 
was to look up the stream, and see the wide-spreading 
trees that interlaced overhead, reminding her of beau- 
tiful pictures that she had seen in books, and of 
dreams she had dreamed, but which she had never 
before realized. 

Little thrills of the keenest pleasure passed through 
her body as she looked, and felt the influence of it all; 
and was it any wonder that she could not talk, and that 
her father too sat motionless? for although he could 
not see all that Hester was enjoying, he could feel the 
cool breeze fanning his cheeks, and he could hear 
the rushing water when they stopped for a moment on 
the bridge. Then he enjoyed listening to the sweet 
boyish voices talking gayly, and to the deeper voice of 
the kind gentleman by their side who was always say- 
ing something so interesting. 

Dr. Andrews and Paul both knew that their friends 
were enjoying the drive, and were simply unable to 
give expression to their joy; but Roy could not read 


1 54 The Story of a Little Poet 

human nature so readily. He thought it very strange 
that they did not talk more, and presently he whispered 
to Paul, “ Say, Perseffer, are they deaf and dumb? ” 

Paul gave him a pinch, bit his lip, and fairly trembled 
as he turned quickly to see if his guests showed any 
signs of overhearing this rude remark. 

But just then they turned in at the Beechwood gates, 
and Dr. Andrews said, “ This is Beechwood’s entrance, 
Hester,” and she leaned out again to behold at last the 
wonderful fairy-land that she had seen in her dreams, 
and talked of, ever since Paul had sent the letter and 
photograph. Was she actually realizing it all, or was 
she still dreaming? She hardly knew, for it was more 
lovely than she even had imagined. The pretty lodge 
nearly hidden in vines, the rolling grounds, the flowers, 
the broad, smooth avenue, bordered on either side by 
tall stately trees, — all filled her with raptures. 

They were all on the porch to receive them when the 
carriage drove up ; even Aunt Helen condescended to 
be present. 

“ I am very glad to see you and welcome you both 
to Beechwood,” said Mrs. Arlington, taking the blind 
man’s hand, then Hester s, without waiting for an intro- 
duction. “ This is my Grandma Wesley,” said Paul to 
Mr. Graves, slipping his arm in his, and taking a step or 
two to meet her. She also shook hands, followed by 
Aunt Helen, and even baby Grace stepped up timidly 
and placed her wee hand in that of the blind man’s 
for a moment, as Paul said, “ This is my sister Grace.” 
She also did the same to Hester, as she saw the rest had 
done, and said, “ I dess you will fink Beechwood is petty 
’tause you don’t see any fowers or trees in er dreat big 
city.” 











The Story of a Little Poet 155 

Hester smiled at the sweet little face upturned to 
hers, and said, “ Yes, we do think it is very pretty, and 
I love to look at the trees and flowers.” 

They were soon all seated on the porch, and Hulda 
appeared with some light refreshments. 

“ I am sure you are both somewhat tired after your 
journey from the city, and perhaps would enjoy a glass 
of lemonade,” said Mrs. Arlington. 

They simply thanked her, and Paul, still keeping close 
beside the blind man, placed the glass securely in his 
hand. 

“Are you fond of the country, Mr. Graves?” asked 
Aunt Helen. 

“Yes, I was always fond of it,” replied the old man, 
in a husky voice ; “ but it has been years since I ’ve seen 
as much as a blade of grass. You have all been very 
kind to us, and the Lord bless you for it all.” 

“ I will leave you both now in charge of the good 
people here,” said Dr. Andrews, addressing the organ- 
grinder and his daughter, “ and I know you will be well 
taken care of, and given a good time. I will join you 
again sometime during the afternoon.” 

They all talked and laughed in a free, easy man- 
ner, soon making the blind man and Hester feel per- 
fectly at home, until finally Hester lost all her shyness 
and talked quite freely with Mrs. Arlington, Grandma, 
and Aunt Helen by turns, telling them much about her 
past life, in which Aunt Helen actually found herself 
becoming very much interested ; she was as anxious to 
hear all that she had to say as the others, though it was 
very much against her principles to entertain beggars 
from the street in one’s own home, and to encourage a 
child in such singular notions. 


156 The Story of a Little Poet 

Paul tried to describe Beechwood to the blind man as 
they sat on the porch, and the places to which he in- 
tended taking him shortly. He listened with the gravest 
attention, occasionally putting forth his hand and strok- 
ing fondly the child by his side, as though he was actu- 
ally in doubt as to whether he were flesh and blood. 

“ Why did n’t you bring your organ ? ” asked Roy, 
stepping up close to the old man, and speaking very 
loudly in his ear, being under the impression that he 
must be deaf if he was blind. 

“ They told me to leave it home, little feller,” he re- 
plied, his countenance never changing from its sad 
expression. 

“Oh, that is all right! ” replied Paul, quickly, fearing 
he might think he had been expected to bring it, after all. 
“Of course you could n’t bring it so far, and I told you 
in the letter not to think of it, for then it would n’t be 
different from any other day.” 

“That’s so! that’s so!” muttered the old man, 
shaking his head sorrowfully. 

What joy it was to tread once more the cool, green 
grass; to hear the rustle of the leaves through the 
branches ; to inhale the pure fresh air laden with the 
scent of fragrant flowers ; and, led by a little child, later 
they slowly wandered through the Beechwood grounds, 
resting now and then in shady nooks, or sitting on rus- 
tic benches by the cool running stream whenever he was 
the least weary. 

It all seemed in a measure to lift the gloom from the 
old man’s clouded mind. He raised his head and looked 
toward the trees with his sightless eyes when now and 
then a bird warbled overhead, then toward the dancing 
waters splashing over the stones at their feet. He could 


The Story of a Little Poet 157 

feel the soft petals of the flowers Paul had placed in his 
hands, and enjoy their sweet perfume, as he raised them 
every now and then to his face. 

Hester’s hands were full of flowers too. They were 
to her like so many costly jewels. How tenderly she 
handled them, examining each one closely; it was a 
great enjoyment to her just to hold them. 

“ Maybe she would rather have some of the wild ones, 
and not all tame ones,” said Roy. 

Afraid that Hester would not understand this remark, 
Paul began to explain. “ He always calls the cultivated 
flowers in the garden the tame ones, because he said 
they ought to be called that, if the others are called 
wild that grow in the woods and by the road.” And 
Paul laughed, and Hester did also, looking into the 
mischievous little face with eyes brimming over with 
merriment. 

“ What does he carry in that bag?” asked Hester of 
Paul noticing that Roy had carried on his arm an old 
woven bag like the old-fashioned school-bag, ever since 
they had started to walk in the grounds. 

“ Oh, that is his treasure bag ! ” Paul replied. “ He 
has had it for two years, and nobody knows why he 
should think so much of it; but for some reason he 
never tells anybody just why he loves everything in it 
more than anything he has. And when he goes to bed, 
he never forgets to hang it on his bed-post. 

“ Mother says it is so funny, because he is so forget- 
ful about other things ; but his treasure bag he never for- 
gets. Whenever he is playing in the grounds he hides 
it under a bush, and when he is in the house, keeps it in 
some safe place where he is sure of finding it again. If 
you ask him, he will show it to you,” continued Paul, 


158 The Story of a Little Poet 

seeing Hester was very much interested and amused, 
and very curious to see its contents ; “ but please don’t 
laugh or even smile. He does n’t care how much he is 
laughed at about other things, but if any one laughs at 
his treasure bag, it almost makes him cry ; it is the only 
thing that ever makes him feel like crying.” 

Hester promised she would not even smile ; and the 
first opportunity that presented itself she said, “ Won’t 
you please let me see what you have in your bag, for 
you must think a dreadful lot of it to carry it around 
on your arm all the time?” 

Roy turned and looked up in her face searchingly, 
but could discover nothing that indicated she was look- 
ing upon it as a very good joke, as he knew so many 
did whenever his treasure bag was mentioned. It was 
a conundrum he could not solve, why its contents should 
cause laughter and ridicule, when to him they were the 
most precious, the most wonderful and curious things 
that he had ever seen. Each little treasure had its 
special attraction for him, which, either from circum- 
stances connected with it, or because in his eyes it 
was a rare curiosity, made it more or less precious. 
Occasionally he added some new article to the collec- 
tion, guarding the whole with the most watchful care. 

The entire household soon found that they were 
obliged to treat the treasure bag with the greatest 
respect when they learned how extremely sensitive he 
was when they laughed at it, and when they saw the 
endless source of pleasure he seemed to derive from it. 
Every night it hung on his bed-post, and the first thing 
he did in the morning, on opening his eyes, was to 
reach for it, and examine each treasure with a new 
interest. 


The Story of a Little Poet 159 

Once when he was confined to bed with the measles, 
and his mother and Paul were both ill at the time, a 
trained nurse was called in to attend him. She was 
told what a mischievous and active little fellow he was, 
and that no doubt she would have a time of it to keep 
him in bed and amused ; but at the end of the week 
she said if it was natural for him to be mischievous and 
troublesome when perfectly well, he was nevertheless, 
when ill, the quietest and best-behaved child she had 
ever nursed. Why, that little bag of treasures would 
amuse him by the hour, she said, and when he grew 
tired he would place them all carefully in the bag again, 
and hang it upon the bed-post, and perhaps an hour 
afterwards would take them all out again, examining 
each one separately with apparently as much interest 
as though he had never seen them before. 

When Hester asked to see the contents of the bag, 
his laughing face immediately assumed a most serious 
expression, and he gave her one long searching look, 
eager to ascertain first whether his treasures were to 
be given proper respect and appreciation before he ran 
the risk of displaying them. 

“ Maybe she would like them,” he thought, seeing 
she looked quite serious. Then he said, “If you will 
sit down here by me on the grass, I will show them to 
you,” which request Hester immediately complied with, 
and, greatly to Roy’s delight, she gave each little 
treasure as it was brought forth all due appreciation, 
and one by one he laid them out on the grass for her 
inspection. Several times she came near laughing, but 
she managed to control herself and keep a straight face 
through it all. Some of them were in small boxes, and 
some in envelopes or wrapped in paper with several 


160 The Story of a Little Poet 

yards of soiled twine wound around them. First he 
brought out a very small box, and, taking off the lid, 
handed it to Hester. “ This is the greatest curiosity I 
have,” he said. “ Just think, it was once in a live man’s 
jaw; ” and, sure enough, Hester saw lying in the box a 
large jaw tooth of a man. He had found it somewhere 
on the road one day, and thought that he had discov- 
ered a great prize. Another small box contained a 
dead centipede, which was especially attractive on 
account of its enormous size and the fact that it was 
killed by himself. Then there was a glass eye, which 
at one time was worn by the toll-keeper’s son up the 
road, who had met with an accident which so injured 
one of his eyes that it was found necessary to take it 
out and insert a false one ; but, after wearing it for some 
time, it was found unsuitable for some reason, and 
another was obtained. He was showing it to the 
Arlington children one day, when they stopped to chat 
a while, as they often did when driving past, and Roy 
begged him to give it to him, as it seemed in his 
estimation a most wonderful curiosity. 

Then there was an ostrich feather that had once 
adorned a hat of his mother’s, its original color being 
white, but at present it was gray with dirt and its curl 
entirely gone, so that it lay as straight and flat as the 
centipede he had just shown. 

After this came a porous plaster that had been worn 
by Pat for a week on his shoulder-blade for rheumatism. 
“ Just think,” he went on, “ this funny-looking thing 
cured an awful pain in Pat’s shoulder; and if you have 
any kind of pains in your body, buy one at the drug 
store, and it will cure you.” 

“ And this,” he said, bringing forth a package wrapped 


The Story of a Little Poet 161 

in a dozen folds of paper, “ is a spike that once ran all 
the way through my cheek when I was playing see-saw. 
It was in the plank, and I fell on it.” 

His mother could never forget the day that accident 
happened ; she saw him coming toward the house with 
his face and clothes stained with blood, and holding 
his throat as though he were choking. At first she 
thought something had pierced his throat or he had 
fallen and cut it. Hulda assisted her in getting him in 
the house, and washing away the blood, while he told 
them in a very cool manner that he had “ fallen on a 
spike, that was all.” They discovered it had penetrated 
his cheek to the mouth, and broken off a piece of the 
jaw tooth, which he pulled out, saying, “ What is this 
wobbling about in my mouth?” 

He had looked a little pale at first, but soon he 
seemed to treat the accident with the utmost indiffer- 
ence, though his mother and Hulda were very much 
exercised about it, and sent off immediately for a phy- 
sician, while with lotions and bandages they tried to 
keep him as quiet as possible until his arrival. His 
mother walked back and forth from the window anx- 
iously watching for him, when she heard Roy make a 
queer noise, and thinking perhaps he was strangling 
with the blood that kept filling his mouth, she rushed 
to the couch in great alarm, when what was her surprise 
to see him actually laughing, and, holding the bandage 
out from his cheek, he said, “ I was only trying to see 
if I could whistle through the hole in my cheek instead 
of my mouth. 

“See this mark?” he said to Hester, pointing to his 
cheek. “ That is where the hole was sewed up.” And 
sure enough, on looking closely, Hester saw a little zig- 


1 62 The Story of a Little Poet 

zag scar which was not plain enough to make a 
disfigurement. 

After explaining about the spike, he brought out an- 
other small box, in which was a lock of his mother’s 
hair, tied with blue ribbon, with a small camphor ball 
lying on top. “ Is n’t that pretty hair? ” he said. “ It 
does not smell very nice on account of the camphor, 
but mother said moths eat wool and hair in summer, so 
I thought I would put that on it to keep them out.” 

There were a number of other things : a piece of an 
old suspender worn once by his father, a skeleton of a 
pet canary, his two pieces of poetry, a small snake he 
had killed by the creek and stuffed with sand, and, last 
of all, a fish-bone that had once stuck in his throat, 
nearly choking him to death. It was carefully wrapped 
in tissue paper and placed in a box. “ Would you 
ever think,” he said, handing it to Hester, “ that a little 
thing like this could ever kill a human being? ” 

“No, you would n’t,” replied Hester, trying to keep 
her face straight. 

“ Well, it could,” went on Roy, “ because it nearly 
killed me. Father said my face was almost black when 
he pulled it out. My ! but I think that is rare curosty, 
don’t you? ” 

“Yes, I do, and I think they all are very rare and 
wonderful,” said Hester. “ And I am very much 
obliged to you for showing them to me and explain- 
ing all about them.” 

From that moment Roy had the greatest respect for 
the organ-grinder’s lame daughter. 

When the dinner hour came, what a sight it was to 
Hester ! 

A table was spread under a large shady tree near the 


The Story of a Little Poet 163 

house, and all sat down together, even Grandma and 
Aunt Helen. And the good things to eat! Hester 
and her father thought there never would be an end to 
the dinner. Soup first; then meat and vegetables, ice 
cream, cake and fruit, and as much fresh milk as one 
wished to drink. 

Roy caused a great deal of amusement during the 
meal by his original and off-handed talk ; he kept Paul 
in constant anxiety lest he should make some rude per- 
sonal remark which might hurt the feelings of the two 
guests. The old man did not seem to understand the 
meaning of the jokes, for he always wore the same sor- 
rowful expression, never laughing with the others, and 
Paul thought that he could not be pleased. Hester, on 
the other hand, was very much amused and entertained 
by all that was said, and at times she laughed so heartily 
that it made her feel quite like her old self again. 

It was a sad sight to Paul to see the old man eat. 
His hand trembled so every time that he raised it to his 
mouth that he wondered how he managed to get the 
food in. 

He was too polite to stare at him, however, and tried 
with the rest to make them both feel perfectly at ease, 
but he was so anxious to see that they were properly 
helped that he scarcely ate anything himself. 

“ Say, Mr. Graves, which do you like best, pod pie 
or ice cream?” called Roy from his end of the table, 
still under the impression that the old man must be 
deaf, no matter how often he was told otherwise. 

Every one laughed at this except the organ-grinder, 
who seemed not to have noticed the remark, but con- 
tinued with his meal, his thoughts apparently far away 
from his surroundings. 


1 64 The Story of a Little Poet 

“ Mr. Graves/’ again called Roy, “ which do you like 
best, pod pie or ice cream?” 

This time the old man laid down his fork and turned 
in the direction of Roy’s voice, and said, “ Was the 
little feller talkin’ to me? ” 

“ Yes, it was me over here,” screamed Roy, and 
again he repeated, fairly shouting, “ Which do you 
like best, pod pie or ice cream?” 

Before he had a chance to reply, Paul as usual 
thought it necessary to explain, “ He means pot pie, 
Mr. Graves. He is very fond of chicken pot pie, and 
always calls it pod pie. He says he likes it better than 
ice cream, and thinks it very strange because I don’t.” 

“ Yes ! yes ! that is so. I like ice cream best, little 
feller,” said the old man, absently, appearing after the 
explanation not to see where the fun came in. 

“ Yes, the Perseffer says he likes ice cream best too, 
but I don’t,” said Roy ; “ and he likes post eggs, but I 
would n’t eat one for a bank of money. I only like 
them shambled. Which way do you like eggs, Mr. 
Graves? ” 

“ Yes ! yes ! I like eggs very well,” said the old 
man. 

Roy was silenced after this for a time by something 
whispered in each ear by his grandmother on one side 
and his mother on the other. 

By the time dinner was over, Hester and her father 
were well acquainted with the family at Beechwood, and 
were greatly refreshed by the bountiful and well-cooked 
meal. 

Shortly afterwards they were escorted to the creek 
for a row ; this had been left for the afternoon’s enter- 
tainment. Grandma, Aunt Helen, and Mrs. Arlington, 



# 

















































































































































































The Story of a Little Poet 165 

having other duties that required their attention, left 
Paul and Hulda in charge of the guests. 

Paul and Roy rowed the blind man and his daughter, 
while in a smaller boat Hulda took Grace and Nero. 
There was no danger of drowning in that part of the 
stream, even should the boats capsize. 

“ I love this part of Beechwood best of all,” said Paul. 
“ I could stay here all day and never get tired.” 

“ Oh, it is so beautiful,” said Hester. “ I have 
never seen anything like it before in all my life. I 
wish you could see it all too, Father;” and she gazed 
sorrowfully at her poor father’s bent figure as he sat 
with clasped hands quiet and listless. 

“ I am so glad that my Hester is happy, and that 
she can see,” he said. 

The green branches met over their heads, forming a 
leafy bower as they slowly glided along. The wild 
flowers and ferns grew in profusion on either side of 
them. The water was so clear in places, the little 
minnows could be seen gambolling about, and Hester 
put out her hand and passed it through the cooling 
stream as the little boat glided along. 

“ The ferns are prettier just above here,” said Paul. 
“ I will get out and pick you a large bunch if you would 
like them. They can be pressed and hung on the wall 
of your room.” 

“ Oh, please do ! I would so like to have them. 
When the flowers die I shall still have them to look at,” 
said Hester. 

She kept turning her eyes first on one side, then on 
the other, fearing to miss the smallest part of the scenery 
surrounding her, and she wondered if heaven could be 
more beautiful. 


1 66 The Story of a Little Poet 

“ Perseffer, sing your sailor song now, that you made,” 
said Roy, suddenly thinking of it, and that it was the 
appropriate time. 

“ Oh, please do,” said Hester, eagerly. 

“Yes, sing, children, sing!” said the old man, in a 
trembling voice. “ Your mother used to sing, Hester 
child, years ago. She was so happy then, before the 
dark days came.” His voice grew quite husky, and he 
again resumed his motionless attitude as his thoughts 
went back to those happy days when everything was 
bright in the world to him. He could see his cosey 
cottage home, and the happy face of his young wife 
coming down the garden path to meet him after his 
day’s work, with baby Hester in her arms, who was 
always transferred to his at the gate, cooing and prat- 
tling after the baby fashion. 

“ Go on,” said Roy; “why don’t you sing, Persef ?” 

Paul did not immediately comply, because he was 
thinking of the blind man and the sad words he had 
just spoken, “ Before the dark days came.” 

“ I guess he means before he was blind, and it 
has always been dark to him ever since,” thought 
Paul. 

Poor man ! he spoke so seldom and when he did, 
it was in such a mournful manner it was enough to 
touch a heart much less susceptible than little Paul 
Arlington’s. 

Hester was waiting eagerly, watching him intently; 
then he began, and Roy and Grace joined in: 

“We ’re the jolliest sailor boys on the sea, 

Just as merry as we can be, 

All day singing a happy song 
As we gayly roll along. 


167 


The Story of a Little Poet 

“ Ho-ho ! Ho-ho ! we ’re the jolliest sailor boys, 

Roaming always o’er the sea, 

Just as gay as we can be. 

Ho-ho ! Ho-ho ! we ’re the jolliest sailor boys. 

“ Oh, come take a sail o’er the deep blue sea 
And be like us, so gay and free, 

Rolling, tossing, night and day. 

’T is the merriest life, I say. 

“ Ho-ho ! Ho-ho ! we ’re the jolliest sailor boys, etc. 

“Oh, Roy and Nero, Grace and me, 

Are the sailors on this rolling sea. 

Its name I know you ’d never dream: 

’T is the beautiful Beechwood stream. 

“ Ho-ho ! Ho-ho ! we ’re the jolliest sailor boys, etc.” 

Clearer and clearer rang the voices, fuller and sweeter, 
keeping time with the oars as they sang, making a trio 
of sweet childish voices, with Paul’s in the lead. 

The merry song roused the old man from his sad 
reveries, and he actually smiled and rubbed his sightless 
eyes, as though making desperate efforts to penetrate 
the gloom, and behold if only for an instant the faces of 
the little singers. 

Hester sat spellbound, watching Paul’s face as he 
rowed and sang. 

“ Oh, that was so pretty ! ” she said, when the song 
was finished. “Won’t you please sing again?” 

u Sing your creek song,” said Roy. “ He made that 
all himself too, and Dr. Andrews thinks it fine.” 

“ Made it all yourself ? ” exclaimed Hester, more and 
more astonished. “ Oh, please sing it ! ” 

Then Paul began immediately, — 


1 68 


The Story of a Little Poet 

“ Gliding, gliding, down the Beechwood stream 
With never a thought of sadness, 

In the bright sunbeams, 

Oh, merrily, merrily, down we go 
With oars bending to and fro. 

“ Flowers, flowers blooming on every side, 

Filling the air with sweet perfume, 

Nodding to us as we glide, 

Oh, gayly, gayly down we go 
With oars bending to and fro.” 

“ Sweet birds, sweet birds, singing everywhere, 

Filling our hearts with gladness, 

With their melodies rare, 

Oh, cheerily, cheerily, down we go. 

With oars bending to and fro. 

“ Gently, gently, o’er the wavelets small 
Over the mossy stones beneath, 

Under the trees so tall, 

Oh, gleefully, gleefully, down we go 
With oars bending to and fro.” 

Roy and Grace did not join in this time, so Paul’s 
voice was heard in all its beauty and sweetness. 
Hester never moved, and as before sat like one 
spellbound. 

Her dream of a few nights before loomed up vividly 
before her again as she listened and watched the sweet 
singer, 

More than ever his face seemed to resemble the one 
she had seen in her dream, and there were the flowers 
and the trees, all just the same, only the miracle had 
not been wrought and her father’s sight had not been 
restored. 

“ Thank you ! thank you so much ! It was beauti- 


The Story of a Little Poet 169 

ful,” she said, with tears actually glistening in her eyes 
when he had finished. 

“ I will sing for you again sometime if you like it so 
much,” said Paul. “ But here we are in fernland. Just 
look, isn’t it like a fairy world?” 

They all got out, and the two boys assisted the 
blind man to a rustic seat, while the others gathered 
ferns for Hester's room. Hester too joined them, 
laughing and talking with the children, as happy as 
they, forgetting for the time all her sorrows, all her 
aches and pains, and the little hot garret room in the 
far off crowded city. 

Only too rapidly for Hester passed this wonderful 
day, with all its new pleasures. 

When returning from the creek, they met Dr. 
Andrews in the Beechwood grounds, and Paul was de- 
lighted ; he could scarcely hide his feelings, for he 
knew the time was now at hand for the doctor to tell 
Mr. Graves and Hester of the plans that they had made 
for their future, and of the new and pleasant home 
where they were to be taken that very day. 

How glad they will be when they hear it, he thought, 
and he fairly trembled with delight when he heard Dr. 
Andrews tell Hulda to take Roy and Grace up to the 
house. Then they sat on the rustic garden seats, and 
Dr. Andrews said, — 

“ I have something to say to you, Mr. Graves, so let 
us rest here a while.” 

“ Yes, yes,” said the old man, shaking his head. 

“ Would you not prefer to live in the country alto- 
gether instead of returning to the hot city to sit all day 
on the streets?” began Dr. Andrews. 

“ Ah, that would be all I would desire for my child,” 


170 The Story of a Little Poet 

replied the blind man. “ But it can’t be done, sir, it can’t 
be done,” he repeated, shaking his head again in the 
usual mournful manner. 

“ But if I tell you there is a good home waiting for 
you both, where you will not have to work any more 
until you get strong and well, and where you both will 
have the best of care, would you hesitate to go ? ” 

“What do you say, sir?” exclaimed the old man, 
growing quite excited. “ A home for my Hester 
where she will be taken care of ? ” 

“ Exactly,” replied Dr. Andrews. “ But not only 
Hester, but where you will be taken care of too, and 
where we hope to see you soon strong and well.” 

“ Oh, sir, can it be true ? can it be true ? ” said the 
organ-grinder, trembling all over for very joy at such a 
prospect. 

“ A home for my Hester ? A home for my Hester? ” 
he repeated, wiping the tears from his eyes while he 
spoke. “ She will not starve, then, if I go, will she, sir, 
my poor little Hester child?” His voice trembled, 
and he put out his hand to touch his kind benefactor, 
while with the other he pressed his forehead as though 
striving to realize it all. 

His emotion was pitiful to see as he strove through it 
all to express his gratitude. 

Paul and Dr. Andrews both knew that there was no 
need for words to express his appreciation and joy. 

“ Sometimes there ’s a cloud here,” he said, touching 
his head. “All seems far off, not real, not real ! But 
this is true, sir, is it not ? Tell me again, kind sir, so I 
cannot forget. A home for my Hester child when I 
die, did you say ? ” 

“ Yes, a good home for your child, Mr. Graves ; it is 


The Story of a Little Poet 171 

all absolutely true, every word ; but I want you to 
thank my little friend here, for it was his suggestion 
that brought it all about ; he has done it all ! ” 

“ Oh, the blessed boy ! the blessed child ! ” said the 
old man, scarcely able to speak for the very sobs that 
filled his throat, and reaching out his hand for Paul, who 
arose and stood close beside him, while he stroked the 
golden hair and patted him on the shoulder, muttering 
incoherently all the while. Then he said more dis- 
tinctly, “You will take care of my little girl, won’t you, 
so that she will not starve ? ” 

“ Yes, I will take good care of her,” replied Paul, his 
own voice trembling with emotion, for it had been a 
very pathetic sight to see and listen to the blind 
man. 

“ We will always take care of her at the Home,” 
continued Paul, getting more command of his voice. 
“ And you are not going to die, Mr. Graves. You 
will soon get well and strong when you get in your 
new home ; ” and Paul rested his hand affectionately on 
his shoulder, while the old man’s arm found its way 
around his body, and he drew Paul closer to him, till 
again as once before when they first met, the gold and 
white locks mingled together. 

“Not for long! not for long!” muttered the old 
man, shaking his head as though he could find no 
encouragement in Paul’s words so far as he was 
personally concerned. 

All through this conversation Hester sat as one 
dazed, drinking in every word with fast-beating heart, 
staring first at one, then at the other, unable at first to 
comprehend it all. 

Could it be possible that this wonderful day was the 


172 The Story of a Little Poet 

introduction to many more just as wonderful as this 
one had been to her? Like her father, she thought 
there must be some mistake : she surely could not have 
heard aright, and it was not until her father had been 
assured several times of its being absolutely true, and 
not until she also heard Paul confirm it all, and say to 
her father, “ No, she will not starve ; we will always 
take care of her at the Home, and you are not going to 
die, Mr. Graves ; you will soon be well when you get 
in your new home,” did she fully realize the great 
change in her life. Then she suddenly arose, and with 
tears rushing from her eyes and down her cheeks she 
threw herself in her father’s arms, and sobbed on his 
shoulder. 

It was her father’s sad words that affected her most, 
after all ; for what pleasure would it all be to her, she 
thought, if he could not live to enjoy it, and as soon as 
she could get command of her voice, she said, — 

“ Oh, Father dear, do not talk of leaving me. I have 
only you left in the whole world, and how could I be 
happy if you leave me now. Won’t you try to get 
well for my sake? Won’t you?” she repeated, await- 
ing an answer, smoothing his haggard face and looking 
at him through her tears imploringly, apparently un- 
conscious for the moment of the presence of Dr. 
Andrews and Paul. 

Her father held her tightly and only shook his head 
sorrowfully in answer to her pleadings. 

“ Perhaps after a while the pain will leave your head,” 
she went on, “ and you will be as well as you were years 
ago. Now won’t you try, Father? ” 

“ Yes, you surely will make an effort for your child’s 
sake to cheer up, won’t you, Mr. Graves?” asked Dr. 


The Story of a Little Poet 173 

Andrews. “ It will make her so happy, and you have 
nothing to do now but to try to get well and forget 
all your past sorrows. Think only of her, and think 
how glad it will make her to see you make an effort to 
feel happy too, and try to dispel all gloomy thoughts 
entirely from your mind.” 

“ I will try, Hester child, I will try,” he finally said, 
patting her as one would an infant. 

He had been greatly affected by this outburst on 
Hester’s part, as also were Dr. Andrews and Paul, for 
she was a quiet child, and it was not her disposition to 
show her feelings by any outward demonstration. 

So it was settled. Glenwood Home henceforth was 
to be the home of the organ-grinder and Hester. 

Paul had the pleasure of accompanying them there, 
with Dr. Andrews. 

All the family came out to see them off, and with 
many good wishes bade Paul’s guests good-by. 

They drove away, almost buried in flowers, which 
Paul had placed in their laps and at their feet; some of 
them were tied in great bunches, and others were piled 
in baskets in rich profusion, for Paul had promised 
Hester that she should take away with her as many as 
she could carry. They actually looked bright and 
happy as they rolled along under the wide-spreading 
trees. The sun was just sinking in the west, leaving 
behind it brilliant rays of shaded gold and red, which 
cast a mellow light over the landscape. 

A gentle breeze sprang up with the dying day, laden 
with odors of pine and cedar, most refreshing to the 
weary father and child, who sat together on the back 
seat, hand in hand, as they did in the morning on their 
way to Beechwood. Too happy to speak, again to 


174 The Story of a Little Poet 

Hester it all seemed like a continuation of that beautiful 
dream ; and there, too, was her dream child, leading 
them always to something beautiful ; and the dark and 
gloomy world that her father and she had just left was 
fast fading away with the setting sun. 


CHAPTER XII 


A LETTER, received at Beechwood from Chicago 
one morning, caused a great stir and commotion. 
Mr. Arlington had found a suitable home for his 
family, and urged them to leave Beechwood as soon as 
possible. Hulda was sent on ahead to get the house 
cleaned, and to arrange the furniture which had already 
been forwarded. Only the plainest and most substan- 
tial had been selected for their future home, — furniture 
which should be suitable for the smaller house they in- 
tended to occupy, and the simple manner in which they 
expected to live. 

Hulda was to be their only maid, and declared that 
she was willing to work her finger-ends off before she 
would leave Mrs. Arlington and the children, to whom 
she was greatly attached. 

One evening at twilight Mrs. Arlington, Grandma, 
and Aunt Helen were seated around a low fire in the 
grate, for the nights were becoming somewhat chilly. 
They were talking of Paul and how wonderfully he had 
striven to overcome the great sorrow of parting with 
Beechwood. 

“ He is a born philosopher, as well as a little poet 
and a philanthropist,” said Grandma. “ The way he has 
of planning and studying out things is wonderful for 
one so young. He told me the other day that when- 
ever he thought of the sad life of the organ-grinder and 


176 The Story of a Little Poet 

his child, and also poor Irish Moll, he felt ashamed of 
himself to think that he should feel the least unhappy 
because he had to leave Beechwood. 

I will just try as hard as I can, Grandma,* he said, 
‘not to think about it at all, but just of all the poor 
people in the world, who live like Moll did, and Mr. 
Graves and Hester, and who never get enough to eat, or 
never see a flower, or the woods and fields.’ ” 

“ Well ! I only hope, for one, that he will find no beg- 
gars near your new home,” remarked Aunt Helen, ad- 
dressing Mrs. Arlington ; “ it is no wonder to me that 
he does not get strong and robust like Roy, when he is 
wearing himself out sympathizing with every beggar he 
sees, and carrying all their burdens on his shoulders.” 

“ It surely has done him no harm to carry out his 
little plan for the organ-grinder and his child,” said 
Mrs. Arlington. “ It has actually been of great benefit 
to him, because in seeing their forlorn condition, and 
sympathizing with them, he could not help but appre- 
ciate his more fortunate position, and feel, even with 
the absence of Beechwood, how bright and different 
was his life from theirs.” 

“ I must still confess that I do not see where it has 
been of any benefit to him,” persisted Aunt Helen. 

“ It is just because you do not understand him, and 
so are not able to see it,” replied Mrs. Arlington. 

“ I am afraid I shall never be able to understand him 
just as you both do,” continued Aunt Helen; “for 
nothing could ever convince me that it can be beneficial 
to any child to be forever following up organ-grinders 
and pedlers, and listening to their tales of woe.” 

“ He is not always doing so,” said Mrs. Arlington. 
“ And, after all, it is only that he is intensely sympa- 


The Story of a Little Poet 177 

thetic, and cannot help noticing all the poor miserable 
creatures he sees. But remember, Helen dear, he is 
still only a little child, and this trait will not be so 
noticeable as he grows older. I would not for a moment 
think of allowing him to be always devoting himself to 
charitable works, and simply consented to let him do as 
he chose in this case because it has been a means of 
taking his thoughts from himself. It is not likely that 
he will come in contact with many such people in the 
suburb where his new home will be.” 

“ Well, if he did I would most certainly put my foot 
down and not let him interest himself in them,” said 
Aunt Helen, very emphatically; she could not, or 
would not, be convinced of anything else but that it 
was all foolishness to encourage her little nephew in 
any of his notions about the poor. 

“ I have no fears for him whatever,” said Mrs. Arling- 
ton. “ These notions, as you call them, are only the 
expressions of a little heart tender and sympathetic. I 
will call the children in now,” she continued, rising and 
walking out of the room. “ The air is chilly; besides, I 
want them to write their last letters to their father before 
going to bed.” 

Mr. Arlington’s health had not improved since he 
left home, but he had not mentioned it to his family 
in his letters. A troublesome cough had developed, 
causing him to lose much sleep and to feel tired and 
weary on arising in the mornings. Frequently he felt 
much discouraged when he found that instead of gain- 
ing, now that all business troubles had practically ended, 
he seemed only to continue losing in strength and flesh, 
and so very naturally he looked for letters from home 
as his greatest comfort and pleasure. Those from his 

12 


178 The Story of a Little Poet 

three little darlings were greatly enjoyed, affording him 
much amusement; they were full of innocent childlike 
talk, yet entirely different in their tone and character, 
and true to the nature of the three children. 

It was a task for Roy to settle himself down to letter- 
writing, but his mother always insisted that he and 
Grace should send a letter to their father twice a week 
as well as Paul. 

Grace, of course, was not able to write, but she would 
stand by her mother and tell her what to say, and Mrs. 
Arlington wrote just as she expressed it, thinking it 
would amuse her father, as well as seem more natural. 

It was a pleasure to Paul to write to his father ; “ It 
is just like having a nice little talk all to ourselves,” he 
said. 

“ Now take pains, children,” said Mrs. Arlington, as 
all three were in readiness. “ Make these the best 
letters of all.” Roy could not yet be trusted with ink, 
so he had to be satisfied with a lead pencil, which 
regularly caused an argument that had to be settled 
satisfactorily before he began. 

Paul’s letter ran thus : — 

My dear Father, — It seems stranger and stranger every 
day for you to be so far away, but we tried hard to get used to 
it, because we had to ; but now we have only a short time to 
stay away from you, and we are all so glad. 

Mother missed you very much, for when she thought no one 
was looking, I saw a little sad look in her eyes, and I knew she 
was thinking of you so far away. I try to make her cheerful, 
because I am sad myself sometimes, and I know what it is. I 
mean I have been sad, but not now; because ever since 
I became acquainted with Mr. Graves, Hester, and Moll, 
whom I told you about, I can’t be. 


The Story of a Little Poet 179 

I hope we will find you well and fat, and not worrying any 
more about those dreadful men who owed you money ; but 
perhaps they didn’t know any better, and couldn’t help it. 
When they get some, I guess they ’ll pay it back. Do you 
think I could help you in your business when I’m a. man ? I 
was thinking about being a minister and making homes for the 
poor ; but a boy ought to help his father first, ought n’t he ? 
Maybe I can do both. 

Beechwood looks beautiful now, only everything seems to be 
saying good-by. The flowers, the leaves, the water, all seem 
to be nodding at me every time I pass them ; good-by, good- 
by, they all are saying, and so now I must say good-by to you 
until we meet to be with you always. 

Your dear son, 

Paul. 

When Roy finished his, and handed it to his mother 
for her approval, she laughed until she cried, and then 
gave it to Grandma and Aunt Helen. Roy was not 
aware of the amusement that his letter caused, as he 
had skipped off as soon as his mother took the letter; 
but even if he had been present, he would not have 
minded it, as he was not at all sensitive, and whenever 
they laughed at anything he said or did, it rather 
pleased him than otherwise. 

His letter ran thus : 

My dear Father, — How r you i wood like to get out 
thare soon to giv you a gude kis is it nice out thare i hope you 
hav jolly fun i hav lots did i tell you i joined the soldjers club 
after you went away the club of nites of pity us i went up 
to here the banders play every day the musick was fine the 
horners fases got orful red wen they blowd them i thote some 
times they wood esplode the drums beet so lowd it made my 
heart go up and down in my stummick and o i dont no wat to 
say to tell you how fine it wus r you makin mutch money out 


180 The Story of a Little Poet 

thare ile be out soon and then ile help you pe nut stands are 
gude things for money caus every boty bies can dudzes make 
mutch money if they cant why then the pursefifor will be poor 
caus he is i we r all as gude as we can be and never do any- 
thing bad from your remaining son Roy of the nite of pity us 
club, i forgot to tell you i made this pickchure of r dazy 
dont you think its good. 

The following is baby Grace’s letter as she dictated it 
to her mother : — 

My dear dood Farver, — I am now yiting my letter to 
you, only Murver puts it down. I was sorry you went away ; 
but I ’m glad now ’tause I ’m dawn to see you soon adain. Did 
you read in er noose paper ’bout Baby Martin dawn to heaven? 
’Ey had a petty white shash tied on er doorbell to tell er peoples 
she had dawn. It was dreadful sadful day, but Bruver Paul say 
she is n’t sad the least a bit, ’tause she is in heaven, an’ ’at ’s why 
the reason no little dirls are sad there ; but her poor farver and 
murver are awsul sad, ’tause ’ey has to stay here wivout her. I 
send you ’ots and ’ots of hugs and kisses from your baby, 

Grace. 

After Paul had sealed and directed his letter, he seated 
himself comfortably in his favorite chair with a book 
which he had been reading for some time, “The Life of 
Washington,” written expressly for children, and having 
many illustrations. Paul had become greatly interested 
in it, and would have finished it long before this, had he 
been permitted to read whenever and as long as he 
desired. Roy and Grace knew about as much of the 
contents of the book as Paul did, for he generally, at 
bedtime, related to them all he had read during the 
day ; and for several weeks they had heard such wonder- 
ful things about George Washington, the father of our 
country, that Roy was beginning to think that he was 


The Story of a Little Poet i 8 i 

more than a mortal, and that there could never be any one 
who could compare with him in goodness and greatness. 
To read of his death, after he had followed him through 
his whole life, made Paul feel very sad. “ And to think 
that it was caused only by a little cold that settled in his 
throat from going out on a damp day,” he thought, as 
he closed the book, and gazed into the grate fire. “ If 
he had only stayed at home that day, he might have 
lived for years.” 

All three children generally went to bed about the 
same time. Paul and Roy slept in single beds, side by 
side, while baby Grace occupied a room communicating. 
The door was always open between, and the three held 
nightly conversations before falling off to sleep. 

Frequently they took turns in telling stories which 
were very funny and interesting to listen to. Paul gener- 
ally found, when it was his turn, that he had been talking 
only to himself for some time, as Roy and Grace had 
fallen off to sleep before he had half finished, and they 
often did this while in the very midst of telling their own 
stories. 

“ I have finished the book at last,” said Paul, after 
they were in bed and left alone, “ and George Washington 
is dead.” 

“ Dead ! ” exclaimed Roy, “ how did he get dead, 
Perseffer? Tell us all about it! ” 

“ ’Es, tell us all ’bout how George Watchinton dot dead 
in er book ! ” called Grace from the next room. 

“ Well, this was just how it was : he went out one very 
damp day to see how things were getting along on his 
farm, and he took cold, and it made his throat swell, so 
he could n’t eat, and of course when you can’t eat, you 
can’t live.” 


1 82 The Story of a Little Poet 

“ Oh, I ’m awsul sorry he dot ’at bad cold. I fink his 
murver ought to made him stay home when it was 
damp.” 

“Pshaw! what are you talking about, Grace? Men 
ain’t little babies,” said Roy. “ They do as they please. 
He had to go out in the snow and rain, and walk in deep 
water when he had the wars going, and even sleep out 
on the ground. He was getting old, I guess, and it was 
time for him to die.” 

“ Who do you think was the bravest, Persef, George 
Washington or God?” he asked in the same breath. 

“ Oh, that ’s a different thing altogether what is n’t 
on the subject,” said Paul, quite indignant at such a 
comparison. 

“ Oh, ’at ’s a difrent fing altodedder what is n’t er sub- 
jet,” repeated Grace after Paul, as she generally did 
during his discussions with Roy, because Paul always 
knew everything, and what he said was always right. 

“ I don’t think it is a different thing altogether,” said 
Roy, notwithstanding there were now two to one. 
“ God ’s a father of a country, is n’t he? and so is George 
Washington the father of a country.” 

“ Well, that ’s different, I tell you,” persisted Paul. 
“ God is father of heaven and earth, and George Wash- 
ington was just called the father of this country while 
he was here, because he won the battles and made us 
free.” 

“ ’Es, ’at ’s what he is,” chimed in baby Grace : “ Dod is 
Dod, farver of heaven, an’ George Watchinton is farver 
of our tountry.” 

“ Well, I don’t care, I like my old Knight of Pityus 
Captain better than George Washington, anyhow,” said 
Roy. “ He has a fine name, too, Alexander Kaufman; 


The Story of a Little Poet 183 

and if he had been living when George Washington was, 
he would have beaten him all to nothing. Just think 
how grand that would sound, — Alexander Kaufman, 
the father of our country.” 

*• I don’t want Alazander Tauffin to be the farver of 
my tountry,” said Grace, on the verge of tears. “ I don’t 
fink ’at name is a sinle bit petty. I jes only like my 
George Watchinton.” 

“ I don’t see how you could like that name,” said Paul. 
“ It would always put me in mind of a coffin. Now just 
listen to this, George Wash-ing-ton, how grand and fine 
that sounds. I don’t care if you tried for a year, you 
could n’t find a better name than that.” 

“ No, you toodent, and ’at ’s why the reason I want him 
for the farver of my tountry,” said Grace. 

“ Well, I don’t care, I think I like my Alexander 
better, anyhow,” said Roy. “ I always stick up for him. 
It ’s your turn to tell a story to-night, Grace,” he con- 
tinued, suddenly changing the subject. 

“ Is it? Well, en I will tell you one yight away. 

“ ’Ere was once upon a time a dreat big tountry wiv 
good peoples in it, when one day some bad peoples turn 
along and say ’ey were dawn to take it away from ’em, an’ 
’ey did n’t know what to do, so one day a dreat big kind 
dood man turn along, an’ he say to all er peoples, Don’t 
be ’fraid ’tause I ’m dawn to knock all ’ese bad peoples 
down dead, an’ keep our tountry for ourselfs, and I won’t 
let ’em hurt you, and en er bad peoples ran away, and 
some were killed dead, an — er dood — man— was — 
George — Watchinton — and not — Al-a-zan-der — Tauf— ” 

A little sigh, and Grace was in dreamland, where Roy 
had already entered, while the little poet and philosopher 
still lay awake, smiling at baby Grace’s story, and think- 


184 The Story of a Little Poet 

ing how funny it was to hear her voice grow lower and 
lower, and the words come with a gap between each 
syllable, until finally they stopped altogether. Soon he, 
too, was asleep, and the three little chattering tongues 
were silenced for the night. 

There was so much to think about, and also so much 
to be done these last days at Beechwood, that Paul’s 
mind and time were completely taken up. He did not 
have a chance very often to be entirely alone, and so 
taken up was he with other matters that he did not fully 
realize just how near he was to parting with his beauti- 
ful home forever. He had many talks with Pat, who 
had become quite cheery over the fact that the gentle- 
man who purchased Beechwood had engaged him with 
most of the other hands to remain on the place in his 
service. It was a great comfort to Paul to know that 
Pat would be looked after. 

“ When I come on to visit Dr. Andrews,” he said, “ I 
will step over to see you every day, Pat, and we ’ll pre- 
tend I am living here, and it is still my home, won’t we? ” 

“ Indade, and we will, me bye, and Oi knows yez will 
niver forgit yer old Pat, who ’s played wid yez iver since 
yez wus born, and yer father afore yez. 

“ I never could forget you, Pat, no matter how long 
I live, and, besides, I ’m going to take care of you when 
I’m a man, you know.” 

“ Bless yer tinder heart, me bye. Oi belave yez 
would, fer yez wus always thrue to yez word.” 

Paul had also many talks with Dr. Andrews, and with 
many of the neighbors, on whom he called to bid good- 
by. 

He tried to be very brave whenever he was asked if 
he thought he would miss Beechwood. 


The Story of a Little Poet 185 

“ Oh, of course I shall miss it,” he would say, with his 
eyelids blinking fast, and a little tremor in his voice. 
“ Because when your home was yours, your father’s, 
your grandfather’s, and your great-grandfather’s, it 
takes a long while to get used to thinking it’s some 
one else’s all of a sudden.” 

There were so many calls to make that they alone 
took up a great deal of his time, for there was no one 
in Arlington Heights he did not know, or in whom he 
was not more or less interested. 

One morning he was alone, walking by the creek 
with a very solemn countenance, when he met Roy. 

“ Hello, Persef, what is the matter? Got a pain any- 
where?” he asked, noting how very serious he looked. 

“ No, I have n’t any pains,” said the little philosopher, 
solemnly. “ I was only thinking about the insect ceme- 
tery. I am going up there now to bid it good-by, be- 
cause maybe I won’t get a chance to see it again before 
we go away.” 

“ I ’ll go with you, Persef, for maybe I won’t get an- 
other chance either. We had jolly fun with that ceme- 
tery, did n’t we ? ” 

Paul turned toward him a look of reproval at this, 
but said nothing. Roy understood it, however. 

“ Oh, I don’t mean jolly fun, Persef, I only just mean 
we had nice times — I mean it was nice, you know, to 
bury all those poor dead bugs we found, and make nice 
graves for them, so they could be buried like human 
beings. Why, Persef, we haven’t had a funal this 
summer; what is the reason?” 

“ Well, you see, I am getting too big now to play those 
bug funerals like I used to when I was a little boy; but 
it was all real to me then, Roy, and I did n’t do it for fun. 


1 86 


The Story of a Little Poet 

I felt just as badly when we buried those poor bugs,” 
continued Paul (as they now stood by the cemetery 
gazing at the little mounds), “ as if they had been real 
people.” 

“ Yes, I know you did, Persef, because I used to see 
tears in your eyes sometimes, but I could not cry a speck 
over an old insect. I used to try, though, at the funals, 
’cause I thought you would n’t like it if I did n’t, so some- 
times I just tickled my nose with a little twig, and that 
would make the tears come ; but then you know I was 
only a little child,” went on Roy (as Paul gave him a 
look of surprise and disgust), “and wasn’t sensible 
yet.” 

“ I hate to think of leaving it forever,” said Paul, with 
his hands clasped. “You know things you had when 
you were little children somehow you always want to 
have. I am glad I wrote down in a book all about 
them, for when I want to remember the cemetery, I will 
just get out the book, and I can read about every bug 
that is buried in it, and the names we gave them.” 

“ I ’ll tell you what we can do,” suddenly exclaimed 
Roy, full of animation. 

“ What?” said Paul. 

“ Why, just dig them all up, put them in a box, and 
take them in your trunk to our new home, and make a 
cemetery there for them, and then you ’ll never have to 
part with them, Persef.” 

“ Oh, no ! I wouldn’t like that,” said Paul, decidedly, 
shaking his head. “ If I were dead and buried, I would 
never want any one to take up my bones which were 
quietly going to dust. I ’ll leave them to rest in peace ; 
besides, they are sad things to have, Roy, and I don’t 
think I will ever make any more. I can always bury 


The Story of a Little Poet 187 

anything dead I find, but I won’t make a regular ceme- 
tery like this.” 

“That’s so, Persef. Course they are sad things to 
have. Don’t let ’s have any kind of sad things in 
our new home. Let’s have jolly things like parades, 
war fights, pretend bull fights, and have Nero for the 
bull. Let ’s have lots of bonfires on ’lection nights, 
shooting crackers and sky-rockets on Fourth of July, 
and let’s have picnics and go to parties and circuses; 
and you have a jolly face on you, Persef, all the time, 
and never your worried one any more, and don’t ever 
make another poetry verse as long as you live, then 
you ’ll be a jolly good feller.” 

Paul never smiled at all this ; he was gazing all the 
time at the rows of little mounds before him, wondering 
how long the fence would last they had made around 
its three sides, the fourth being enclosed by a large 
rock, and if Pat would look after it occasionally if he 
asked him. 

For two years the little cemetery had been of great 
interest to the two boys, especially to Paul. Whenever 
a dead bug was found, bird or butterfly, they would im- 
mediately have a funeral. A little tin wagon was used 
as a hearse, draped around with a piece of black mate- 
rial. The corpse would be placed in a box in the 
hearse, on top of which always rested a flower of some 
kind. A long stout string was attached to the hearse, 
and slowly they hauled it to the cemetery in a secluded 
nook up the creek. It was laid out in rows of graves, 
with paths between wide enough for the hearse to pass 
through. Each grave had a head and foot stone, or at 
least a head and foot board, on which Paul had written 
in ink each one’s name and the date of its burial. 


1 88 The Story of a Little Poet 

Here is a sample of an inscription: — 

BILLY — THE BETLE 
FOUND 5 OF JUNE AND 
BERRIED THAT SAME DAY 
MUST OF BIN KILED IN WAR 
FOR HIS LEGS AND WINGS WERE GONE 
HE MUST HAV BIN BRAVE TO FITE SO HARD. , 

Here is another: — 

LILY THE BUTTER FLY YELLER AND BLACK 

KILD BY ROY WHO GAVE IT A WACK 

AS IT FLEW CLOSE BESIDE HIM ON THE SECOND OF MAY 

WHICH FOR IT WAS OF COURSE ITS VERY LAST DAY. 

“ Come on, Persef, let ’s go. I think we Ve said good- 
by long enough,” said Roy; and with one wistful look 
and a sigh Paul turned, and they both walked away. 

Just at present there was one particular event Paul 
was looking forward to in which he was more interested 
than anything else. It was a lawn concert to be given 
at Glenwood Home the day before Paul left Beechwood. 
What made it especially interesting to him was the fact 
of it being an outcome of an idea of his very own, which 
he had spoken of to Dr. Andrews some months before, 
and of which that gentleman thought very favorably, 
and had promised Paul he would look into it when the 
summer came. 

“ Don’t you think it would be a good thing for the 
Home children if we could have some music for them,” 
he had said. “ I think it makes people good to listen 
to good music, just as it does to listen to a good ser- 
mon. Why, when I am listening to sweet music, Doctor, 
the world looks more beautiful to me somehow, and 


The Story of a Little Poet 189 

when I Ve had any troubles, I forget all about them, so 
I think the Home children might feel that way too. I 
guess everybody loves music, don’t you think so?” 

“ I cannot imagine a nature that would actually dis- 
like it,” replied the doctor, who had listened attentively, 
it being the first time he had ever heard Paul speak of its 
beautiful influence upon himself. 

Dr. Andrews remembered this conversation and 
Paul’s suggestion, and thought now was the time to act. 
He should have the pleasure of attending the first con- 
cert given for the Home children, which would be held 
on the lawn, and the beginning of a series that would 
follow as long as the weather would permit. Then mu- 
sic of an appropriate kind should be obtained for in- 
doors at intervals during the winter months. So when 
he told Paul the musicians had been engaged for con- 
certs at Glenwood Home, and the first would come off 
the day before he left, his joy knew no bounds, and he 
talked of nothing else. 

Almost every day he drove over to Glenwood with 
Dr. Andrews to talk it over with the managers, the ma- 
tron, and children ; in fact, with every one who was the 
least interested. 

There was one drawback, however, in his mind to the 
concert being a perfect success, and that was the illness 
of the organ-grinder and Hester, which would most 
likely prevent them from being present and enjoying it 
with the others, even if they would be able to hear the 
music from their rooms. 

No visitors were allowed in the sick rooms, with the 
exception of Dr. Andrews, so Paul had not seen 
either of them since their admittance. Dr. Evans had 
ordered them to bed immediately, and said that Hester 


190 The Story of a Little Poet 

might be coaxed back to enjoy once again at least fair 
health, but for her father he thought there could be 
nothing done. They would try at least to make his last 
days comfortable as possible. They did not tell Hes- 
ter, however, that her father’s case was a hopeless one, 
and neither did they tell little Paul Arlington; both 
Hester and he thought that he was put to bed simply 
for the rest and to gradually gain strength by proper 
nourishment and care. 


CHAPTER XIII 


I T was understood throughout Arlington Heights and 
Glenwood that a concert was to be given for the 
Home children, which would also be in honor of Paul 
Arlington before he went away, for every one knew how 
much he was thought of by the little inmates ; he was 
a regular visitor, and very much interested in everything 
connected with the Home. 

A great gathering was therefore expected on the 
lawn. Circulars had been distributed inviting all to 
come and enjoy the music ; these stated that this concert 
was to be the first of a series that would continue indefi- 
nitely, and that these concerts had been brought about 
by the suggestion of one of the little friends and workers 
of the Home, who had brought to it three inmates en- 
tirely through his own exertions. 

When at last the day arrived, it happened to be a 
very warm and sultry one. The roads were dry and 
dusty, being very much in need of rain. Paul, though, 
did not pay much attention to such little things as these. 
The sun was shining, and that was sufficient in his mind 
to make the day a success. 

“ Although we are so much in need of rain, I am glad 
for your sake, Paul, it is keeping off at least a day 
longer,” remarked Dr. Andrews, as Paul and he were 
driving along the dusty road toward Glenwood to assist 
in the final preparations for the garden/^ in the after- 
noon. 


192 The Story of a Little Poet 

“ The first thing I thought of this morning was to 
look for the sun,” said Paul, “ because if it rained the 
band could not play unless it went inside, and it would 
be too loud for indoor music, and the people would n’t 
come, and the Home children could n’t have their re- 
freshment table out under the trees, and I would n’t be 
here for the next one.” 

“ It would certainly have been a great disappoint- 
ment to many besides yourself, if it had been a rainy 
day. I only hope the fair weather will continue, but 
this sultry condition is often a forerunner of thunder- 
storms,” said Dr. Andrews. 

“ I am sorry the poor old blind man will not be able 
to come down, but maybe he will the next time. They 
think Hester will be strong enough to sit on the porch 
for a while, and I shall be very glad to see her again. I 
do believe this is the happiest day I have had in my 
life,” went on Paul, in his earnest way, looking up in 
Dr. Andrews’s face with his own fairly beaming with joy. 
It did not occur to him for a moment of what the next 
day would bring; but Dr. Andrews was thinking then 
how much he would miss his little companion and pu- 
pil, and of the pleasant drives and walks they so fre- 
quently took together. 

A number of the Home children were at the gate 
watching for them when they arrived. These two were 
the most welcome and loved of all visitors there. 

No lessons were to be studied that day, and only the 
regular household work was done. 

The children surrounded the carriage as it drove up 
to the door. 

“ Oh, come and see our tables ! ” said one, referring 
to two tables at the end of the large halls, on which 


The Story of a Little Poet 193 

were displayed articles of various kinds, made by the 
children. It had always been a custom on visiting days 
to display these little articles for sale, the money, of 
course, going in the Home fund. 

A great many visitors being expected on this particu- 
lar day, they thought it a good opportunity to make 
an unusual number of sales, and so displayed all that 
they had. This was done partly to give each child a 
feeling of independence. It was good for them to feel 
that they were doing something for the support of the 
Home, and were helping in a measure to make some 
return for the comforts they enjoyed, and the instruc- 
tion and care given them. 

“ Oh, come and see all the plants that have been sent 
to decorate,” said one of the children, as all grouped 
around Paul as he alighted, eager to lead him off and 
have the pleasure of being first to show what had been 
done since his previous visit. 

“ I will look around the grounds first, and see if they 
are all right,” said Paul. 

“ Oh, yes, they are all right,” said little Irish Moll at 
his elbow, looking bright and happy, her pinched face 
filled out roundly, and the starved, frightened look en- 
tirely gone. “ See,” she continued, “ all these benches 
were brought this morning for the people that are 
coming.” 

“ What a good idea ! ” said Paul, shaking his head 
in his old-fashioned way, looking from right to left as 
he slowly walked over the grounds. 

“ I wonder if the platform is very strong,” he said 
when it came in view, having been just put up under 
some shady trees expressly for the band. He stood 
looking at it critically, holding his head first on one side, 

13 


1 94 The Story of a Little Poet 

then on the other, then stooping to look underneath for 
a close inspection of its foundation. “ Yes, I think that 
is a good strong platform,” was his final opinion* “ and 
I never saw the grounds look so beautiful.” 

“ The gardener has been putting them in order for 
three days. The grass is all freshly cut, and every 
speck is picked up from the walks. We would n’t drop 
even a crumb on them now, would we, Sam ? ” said a 
little fellow, addressing his chum by his side. 

“ Indeed, we would n’t ; we ’ve all been helping to 
get it in fine order,” replied Sam. 

“ Ah ! Here you are now,” said Mrs. Fleming, the 
matron, stepping from the door as Paul approached. 
“ I have been waiting for your advice in regard to all 
the plants and flowers that have been sent by kind 
neighbors for decorating. You know you are Master 
of Ceremonies to-day, and must be consulted in all 
things.” 

“ Oh, thank you,” said Paul, with a little laugh, raising 
his hat at the same time, though he hardly understood 
what Master of Ceremonies meant. But she had waited 
to consult him about the flowers, and that was very kind 
in her, he thought. 

They all knew his love for them and his artistic taste 
in arranging them. On previous occasions they had 
marvelled at the skill he displayed in floral decorations, 
and so always left it for him. He never before had so 
many to find places for, however, as he had to-day. 

“Where did they all come from?” he asked, walking 
among and around the large pots that stood on the 
porch and on the grass in front, and the baskets of cut 
flowers lying everywhere. 

“ All from neighbors,” replied Mrs. Fleming. “ The 


The Story of a Little Poet 195 

plants, of course, are only loaned. Now get to work, 
Paul, and direct us. The cut flowers we ’ll arrange first, 
because they will fade if not soon placed in water. I 
would not even touch one of these before you came, 
because I preferred your taste in their arrangement as 
well as in the plants,” continued Mrs. Fleming. 

“ Oh, thank you ! ” said Paul again. 

He stood for one moment, letting his eye glance over 
all the flowers ; then he said : “ I think I know where 
to place them all.” All sorts of vases and receptacles 
suitable were brought out, and soon many hands were 
busy with the beautiful flowers, arranging them just as 
directed by Paul, whose quick fingers and artistic eye 
soon had them ready to be distributed through halls 
and rooms. 

“ Do you think you could spare some for Mr. Graves’s 
and Hester’s rooms?” asked Paul of Mrs. Fleming. 

“ Why, certainly we can,” she replied, “ and it was 
very sweet of you to think of it. Choose whichever 
you like, and I will send them up with your compli- 
ments. You could take them up yourself, Paul, only 
we are keeping Hester very quiet until this afternoon. 
You rescued the poor child just in time,” went on Mrs. 
Fleming. “ She would not have lived much longer had 
help not come when it did.” 

“And her father? He was rescued just in time too, 
wasn’t he?” asked Paul, selecting a vase of beautiful 
pink roses for each of them, holding them while 
he stood before Mrs. Fleming, looking in her face 
questioningly. 

“ We are still doing all we can for him, Paul dear,” she 
replied, taking the vases. “ He has been ill a number 
of years, you know, and is very weak and feeble.” 


196 The Story of a Little Poet 

“ Of course it would take longer for him to get well; 
but he will after awhile, don’t you think so?” 

“ I hope so,” was all Mrs. Fleming could say, as she 
walked off with the flowers, having been requested 
before by Dr. Andrews not to acquaint Paul with the 
sad news that he would never recover, and that at the 
most he had only a few more days to live. 

There seemed to be nothing more to do : everything 
was in readiness and the sun still shone bright in the 
heavens when Dr. Andrews and Paul drove home over 
the dusty roads to get their lunch, and dress for the 
afternoon. It was not long before they returned again, 
this time with the whole family, just a little while before 
the band began to play. The lawns were already full 
of people, and the Home children were scattered here 
and there among them, dressed in neat costumes, all 
looking bright and happy. Most of them surrounded 
the band, that being the greatest attraction, as they 
were all tuning up their different instruments; but what 
attracted little Paul Arlington most of all, as he drove 
in the gate, was a little figure sitting on the porch in an 
invalid chair. He raised his hat to many as he passed, 
for he knew nearly every one ; but his thoughts were 
with little crippled Hester, whom he was so anxious to 
see ; as soon as he stepped from the carriage, he walked 
immediately up the porch steps, followed as usual by a 
number of children. 

“ I am so glad to see you, Hester,” he said, raising 
his hat very politely, as he approached her chair. “ Are 
you feeling stronger now?” 

“ Yes, I am feeling stronger every day,” she replied. 
“ I did not think I was so ill until they put me to bed. 
I am glad they let me come down to the concert to-day, 


The Story of a Little Poet 197 

and to see you too,” she said. “ I am very fond of 
music.” 

“ I am, too,” said Irish Moll, who as usual was at 
Paul’s elbow and listening to all that was said. 

“ I thought you all would like it,” said Paul. “ And 
you know you are to have a concert day every week 
while the weather is warm. I shall not be able to come 
to any but this one, though, because I shall be living 
miles away from here in my new home.” 

“ And won’t you ever come back again ? ” asked another 
little girl. “ It won’t be near so nice here if you won’t 
come any more to see us.” said another. 

“ I am very sorry I have to go,” said Paul, with a 
little sigh, “ but it can’t be helped, you know.” There 
was a tremor in his voice as he spoke, which no one 
noticed but Miss Hall, one of the teachers, who had 
Hester in charge. 

“ Of course, we all are very sorry to part with you, 
Paul,” she said, “ and we shall miss you more than we 
can say; but we shall see him again, children, for he will 
surely come on sometimes to visit Dr. Andrews and his 
relatives, and he will not forget us then, will you, Paul? ” 

“ I will never forget any of you,” he said earnestly. 

Here the conversation was brought to a sudden stop, 
for the band struck up, startling them all. A number 
of the children ran toward the platform, thinking the 
nearer they were to the music, the more they would 
enjoy it. 

Paul stood quite still, however, by Hester’s chair, lis- 
tening and bowing to the people who passed back and 
forth near the porch, many walking by purposely to 
see him, and the organ-grinder’s daughter, whom they 
knew he had rescued from a most wretched life ; they 


198 The Story of a Little Poet 

had heard she would be on the porch that afternoon to 
enjoy the concert. 

Paul did not know that the principal topic of conver- 
sation that afternoon among the people on the lawn 
was himself ; and when he stepped down to talk to many 
who were just waiting for an opportunity to speak to 
him, he hardly understood when they said, “ Allow me, 
Master Paul, to congratulate you on the great success 
of your concert.” He never thought at the moment 
that it was the outcome of a proposition he had made 
to Dr. Andrews some months before, for that had hap- 
pened so long ago, and the arrangements had been 
made and even the day fixed for the concert before he 
knew anything about it. 

They smiled when he said, “ Oh, it is n’t my concert 
at all ; it ’s the Home children’s, and Dr. Andrews fixed 
everything.” 

“But it was all your idea, was it not?” asked a 
gentleman. 

Paul thought a moment, then said, “ Well, I told Dr. 
Andrews one time I thought it would be a good thing 
for the Home children to hear some music once in a 
while, but he attended to it. You see, I could do noth- 
ing without him.” 

“ Hello ! Persef. Where have you been all this 
time?” asked Roy, stepping up to Paul. “This is a 
jolly picnic, I tell you. Why don’t you have one every 
day? Say ! come over with me to the ’freshment table. 
I ’ve been around there, and they are getting everything 
ready. Let’s go get our seats before they all are taken. 
My ! but I ’m glad I ’m alive to-day, Persef! ” 

Every one laughed who heard Roy, but that did not 
affect him in the least. Paul, however, felt very much 


The Story of a Little Poet 199 

mortified and indignant at him for such a display of bad 
manners, especially as every one knew the refreshments 
were only intended for the Home children after the 
concert was over. 

Paul said nothing then, but took Roy’s arm and 
walked off with him a short distance until beyond hear- 
ing. Then he said : “ Roy, you must not go near those 
refreshment tables; they are only for the Home chil- 
dren, and it is very impolite for you to go sit down at 
the table.” 

“ Pshaw ! If I had known that, I would n’t have come 
to your old picnic at all. I think ’freshments the best 
part, and I don’t think it’s imperlite for just me to go.” 

“ I tell you it is, Roy,” persisted Paul, keeping tight 
hold of his arm, fearing even yet he might disgrace the 
whole family, notwithstanding all his efforts to keep him 
away. 

“ I ’ll tell you what I ’ll do,” went on Paul, very much 
excited, and still keeping his grip on his arm. “ If 
you ’ll promise me not to go near the tables until after 
all the children are seated, I will try to get you some 
refreshments.” Paul had not the least idea when he 
spoke how it would be done, but if he could only put 
Roy off until then, he thought very likely some one 
would offer him some without the asking. 

“ Is it sure pop if I promise? ” said Roy. 

“Yes, sure,” replied Paul, emphatically. 

“ All right. I ’ll promise, then,” and thus assured, 
his mind felt at ease on the refreshment question. 

“I tell you what, Perseffer, these are fine banders; 
but they can’t beat the Knights of Pityus, for these 
horners’ faces don’t get near so red when they blow.” 

“ It is because they play softer/’ said Paul ; “ I don’t 


200 


The Story of a Little Poet 

like such awful loud music. Don’t you think the chil- 
dren look well and happy? Just think how dreadful 
some of them looked when they first came to the Home. 
And Moll, you remember, could scarcely stand on her 
feet, or talk, and now she can run faster than any of 
them, and talks too much, Mrs. Fleming says; and 
Hester, even, is getting stronger every day.” 

“ Course they all would look jolly, on picnic days 
when music plays, and they have ice cream and cake for 
’freshments, ,, said Roy, as arm in arm they retraced 
their steps among the people again. All eyes were 
turned upon them admiringly. 

“They look like the picture of the Princes in the 
Tower,” remarked one. 

They came to the benches where Mrs. Arlington, 
Grandma, and Aunt Helen and Grace were seated with 
their friends, and when Grace saw them, she ran to meet 
them, and took Paul’s other arm, then all three children 
continued walking about among the people, stopping for 
a few minutes to talk every now and then, while behind 
them trooped a number of Home children. 

Paul’s mother felt very proud of him that day, in fact, 
the entire family did, for every one had something good 
and sweet to say about him. Even Aunt Helen was 
forced to acknowledge that she was pleased also. She 
never before had such a good opportunity to see how 
the Home children adored him ; his influence over them 
was wonderful. 

Dr. Andrews as well as Paul received many congratu- 
lations for his splendid management of the Home, and 
all expressed to him their regrets for the separation 
that was so soon to follow. It made him feel very sad 
indeed to think about it, 


201 


The Story of a Little Poet 

Occasionally Paul would return to the porch to have 
a little conversation with Hester. She was not at all 
tired, she said, and never spent a pleasanter day except 
that day at Beechwood. “ I will never forget it,” she 
said. “ It was a beautiful dream that had come true, 
only — ” and here she hesitated, then continued sadly, 
“ Only poor Father, he did not get well; and if he only 
could be strong enough to be with me to-day, I could n’t 
be happier.” 

“ It will take him a long while to get well, because he 
has been ill so long; but I hope by the time you have 
the next concert you will have him with you,” said Paul, 
encouragingly. 

“ I hope I will ; but he must be very sick, for they 
won’t let me see him,” continued Hester, with tears in 
her eyes. 

“ Oh, that does n’t mean he is any worse. You will 
soon see him now,” continued Paul, full of sympathy 
for the poor child. “ They did n’t think it would be a 
good thing for one sick person to go to see another. 
I remember one time Pat was sick in bed with rheu- 
matism, and had fever, and that made him cross. He 
is n’t cross, you know, but it was only the fever. His 
cousin came to see him one day, and she had been sick 
with rheumatism too, and was n’t well yet. She walked 
lame and gave a groan every step she took; and when 
she came in the room, Pat cried; yes, he did, even if he 
is a man, but it was the fever, you know, and he said : 

‘ Phwat ’s the mather wid yez, thot yez kem to see me, 
wid a groan and a limp. Oi ’ll be bound Oi hev 
enough av thot to do meself. Shure, an’ oblige me yez 
would to tek yerself hame and git to bed where yez 
belong.’” 


202 The Story of a Little Poet 

Hester’s countenance changed immediately at this, and 
she laughed outright, wiping the tears from her eyes at 
the same time. In fact, all laughed who heard him, so 
well did he imitate Pat in speaking the Irish brogue. 

“ So you see,” he continued, “ I guess it is not a 
good thing for one sick person to go see another.” 

“ I suppose that is the reason,” said Hester, feeling 
convinced that Paul must be right. 

When the concert was over, Paul ran down on 
the lawns to say a last good-by to many he knew 
intimately. And soon the grounds were cleared, every 
one leaving except the Arlingtons and a few others 
who were connected with the Home, who remained to 
see the children at the refreshment tables, and assist if 
necessary to wait upon them. 

Roy was delighted when Mrs. Fleming escorted him 
to a seat at the table among the children, and placed 
before him a heaping saucer of ice cream and a large 
piece of cake. 

While they ate, Dr. Andrews spoke to the children, 
and was obliged to mention the fact that it was Paul’s 
farewell visit, and that it might be months before they 
would see him again ; but he tried to make it not seem 
too sad, for he did not want to mar either the children’s 
or Paul’s happy day by talking too much about this 
event. 

“ I expect to have him spend several weeks with me 
occasionally,” he went on, “ and of course you will see 
a great deal of him then.” He wound up by saying: 
“ Paul has something to say to you all, after which you 
can bid him good-by, as it is necessary for him to re- 
turn home very shortly.” 

Paul stepped upon a stump of a tree that was near 


The Story of a Little Poet 203 

him, where he could see all the children and be seen 
plainly by them, and without waiting a moment said in 
a clear voice, though it trembled a little : “ I am very 
sorry I must say good-by to you all. I always loved 
to come here to see you, and be with you, but I will 
come on to see you whenever I can, and I shall always 
remember you, and hope you will all remember me.” 

That was all, but it was said so sweetly and earnestly, 
the tremor in his voice growing quite noticeable toward 
the last of the little speech, that every one felt very 
queer, and for a few moments there was not a sound, 
and several were seen to wipe their eyes. There was 
no knowing how sad a scene would have followed this 
if the spell had not been suddenly broken by Roy, who 
called out quite loudly: “ Sing your jolly Sailor Song, 
Perseffer. I think they would like that better.” 

Every countenance changed as if by magic at this, 
and all laughed heartily. Instead of there being a very 
sorrowful scene at Paul’s leave-taking, it was, after all, a 
very merry one, and all owing to Roy. 

“ Suppose you sing the Jolly Sailor Song for us, Roy,” 
said Dr. Andrews, still laughing with the others. 

“ Oh, I can’t sing like the Perseffer,” he replied, 
looking a little shy, now that every eye was turned 
upon him. This all caused them to laugh louder. 

“ All who would like to hear Roy sing the Jolly 
Sailor Song clap their hands,” said Dr. Andrews. 

Instantly every pair clapped loudly, together with 
loud whistles from the boys. 

“ Now see how anxious they are,” said Dr. Andrews. 
“ Come now, step up on the stump here, so they can 
all see you, and do your best.” And he actually did 
allow himself to be escorted to the stump and sang 


204 The Story of a Little Poet 

every verse of the Sailor Song, which all pronounced 
done well, and the children clapped him again and 
again. 

Shortly after this, two carriages were moving slowly 
toward the gate, with all the Home children following, 
the boys waving their hats, and the girls their hand- 
kerchiefs, while in the background stood teachers, 
managers, and servants doing the same. And a perfect 
chorus of good-bys filled the air, as they turned in 
the road. Then the Home children stood at the gate, 
and continued to wave their handkerchiefs after them 
as long as the carriages were in view. 


CHAPTER XIV 


M ORE than a month had passed since Paul left 
Beechwood, and still it seemed impossible for 
him to feel at home with his new surroundings. 

So many dreadful and unexpected things had oc- 
curred in such a short space of time that he was begin- 
ning with the dawn of each day to wonder what would 
happen before night. 

It was not surprising that his head was in a whirl, 
for no sooner had they arrived at Avondale than they 
found that it was absolutely necessary for Mr. Arling- 
ton to go away for the winter to a warmer climate. A 
specialist who had been consulted in regard to his 
condition (which was found more serious than they 
ever dreamed of) advised a sea trip first, followed by 
a stay of several months in the south of France. 

“Such a trip would do more toward restoring him to 
health than anything else I could advise,” he had said. 

When Mrs. Arlington realized his condition, she 
persuaded him to act immediately on this advice; and 
it was not many days before there was another sad 
parting to be gone through with, and the three Arling- 
ton children found themselves in a new home under 
the care of their young aunt and Hulda. Grandma 
accompanied Mr. and Mrs. Arlington across the seas. 

Paul is thinking over all the occurrences that had 
taken place since the day that he had heard the start- 


206 The Story of a Little Poet 

ling news in the summer-house at Beechwood. Nest- 
ling down in a large easy-chair, with his legs crossed 
and his chin resting on his hand, he is gazing, while 
he thinks, at the bright glowing coals in the grate 
before him. So quietly does he sit that one would 
think that he was asleep but for the constant blinking 
of his eyelids. 

Ever since he came to Avondale it had seemed to 
him as if he were away on a visit, and that soon he 
would return again to his beautiful home; for some- 
how he could not get accustomed to all the changes. 
There was one thing he did, however, enjoy, and that 
was the going back and forth to Chicago in the train 
every day to attend school. That was a great experi- 
ence for him, making him feel quite independent. 

It was only a short ride, but he found much to inter- 
est him from the car windows as he rolled along, and 
also in the large busy city when he arrived there. 

"If Father and Mother had not gone away,” he was 
thinking, “ I would be beginning to like it by this 
time, perhaps.” He missed them very much, also the 
daily companionship of Dr. Andrews and the little 
faces of the Home children. It made him homesick 
to thifik of the loved ones who were absent, and with 
whom he had been constantly all his life. It seemed 
impossible for him to overcome the feeling, though he 
did make a great effort to do so. 

This afternoon he felt very lonely and sad on his 
return from school. Aunt Helen had gone out with 
Roy and Grace, and Hulda was busy in the kitchen. 

After eating the lunch that had been saved for him, 
he threw himself in the big chair and immediately 
gave himself up to thought. He wondered if he were 


The Story of a Little Poet 207 

not dreaming, after all, and if it all had actually 
happened. 

The little flames leaping up through the coals seemed 
to form pictures like a panorama, one after another 
looming up before him when he thought of Beechwood 
and all the old familiar places; but suddenly they 
vanished, for the door opened, and Roy and Grace 
bounded in the room with ruddy faces and sparkling 
eyes, full of life and merriment, their tongues chatter- 
ing away at a great rate; they presented quite a con- 
trast to the little philosopher sitting so quietly in the 
armchair, with his serious face and homesick thoughts. 
When Roy began to tell him about their walk and 
what they had seen, his face brightened up, and the 
dreamy look disappeared, and he turned eagerly to 
listen, his eyes blinking away faster than ever. 

“Oh, I wish you had been with us, Perseffer,” 
he began. “We had a daisy picnic, didn’t we, 
Grace? ” 

“’Es, we did have a dreat big daisy picnic I ever 
did see.” 

“We walked away past all the houses,” continued 
Roy, “and the church until we came to nothing but 
fields; then we walked up to the top of a great high 
hill, and when we got to the edge and looked down, 
guess what we saw ? ” 

“A deer?” 

“ No.” 

“A pedler ? ” 

“ No.” 

“ I give it up, then.” 

“Why, a big mill.” 

“ ’Es, a dreat big mill,” repeated Grace. 


2o8 


The Story of a Little Poet 

“ It was right by a creek, Persef, and looked some- 
thing like our Beechwood creek.” 

“ Sompin ’ike er Beechwood creek,” chimed in Grace, 
thinking that would surely please Brother Paul. 

“But when we got down to the bottom of the hill it 
wasn’t so nice; for the little houses around the mill 
were dirty and all breaking to pieces. They just 
looked like old broken-down chicken houses around a 
big barn.” 

“ Jes ’ike chitten houses ayound dreat big barn,” re- 
peated Grace, opening wide her big brown eyes, so 
pleased at the interest Paul showed in all they said, 
and anxious to be the first to tell of some of these 
interesting things; but so far Roy had gotten ahead of 
her. 

“Do people live in those houses that look like 
chicken houses ? ” asked Paul, eagerly. 

“Course they do, Persef,” replied Roy, with a great 
air of importance to think that for once he was able 
to give the Perseffer some information and to have 
made what appeared to him, at least, a most wonderful 
discovery. 

“What did the people look like? ” asked Paul, grow- 
ing more and more interested. 

“Oh! they looked poor and thin, just like the old 
organ-grinder and Hester.” 

“Jes ’ike er old orden-drinder and ’Ester,” repeated 
Grace. 

“And, Persef, some had no shoes or stockings on; 
and the chickens were walking right in and out their 
front doors, just like human beings.” 

“Chittens were walkin’ yight in and out er f’ont 
doors, jes ’ike ’ey were human beans; and it was awsul 


The Story of a Little Poet 209 

sadful, Bruver Paul,” said Grace, noting Paul’s look 
of surprise, and his interest growing deeper, while he 
listened to the description of this new and interesting 
discovery he had no idea existed so near Avondale. 

“An’ ’ey had ’ittle bits of dardens j is only about 
iss big,” went on Grace, stretching out her hands to 
show the size, which would have been about a yard, 
judging from her measurement. “And ’ittle piggies 
were yunning ayound, and ’ittle bits of dirls and boys, 
and some dreat big mans and ladies, and a big w’eel 
went ayound and ayound in the water, and — ” Here 
she was obliged to stop and take breath, and to think 
of something else that had not so far been mentioned, 
though she tried to keep right on and prevent Roy 
from having another chance; but the instant she hesi- 
tated, Roy started right in. 

“Some had lots of goats in their yards, too, Persef; 
and some boy called after me, * Hello, Curly! ’ I was 
just going for him to thash [thrash] him when Aunt 
Helen took hold of me and held me back. She would 
not let us stay and watch the mill, for she said it was 
not a very nice place down there. After we left there, 
we walked up another hill and around lots of fields 
again, and through a wood, until we came in Maple 
Avenue again. It was a jolly walk, I tell you, and 
I ’m going again soon. Aunt Helen said we could n’t 
go near there without her, though.” 

Roy and Grace had been standing all this time by 
the armchair, with hats and coats still on. 

Roy could think of nothing more to say, so he 
skipped out of the room with a merry whistle, leaving 
Paul and Grace alone. Paul then took off Grace’s 
coat and hat, and together they sat in the same chair. 

14 


210 The Story of a Little Poet 

Grace nestled up close to him and looked up into his 
face, while he stared intently at the fire, very busily 
thinking. Grace guessed what his thoughts were, and 
knew why he was so interested in all they had just 
told him. It was because the people were very poor 
and lived in old broken-down houses. 

“ Don’t you fink it would be nice, Bruver Paul, to 
take er ’ittle boys and dirls some beyed and butter? ” 
she finally asked. 

“Did they really look so hungry, Robin? And 
did they look sick and tired, like Hester and her 
father? ” 

“ ’Es, ’ey weally did look awsul hungry, an’ er ’ittle 
dirls’ desses were all torn and soiled. I des all ere 
farvers lost er monies in er big pantic, and toodent 
det a sin’le penny to buy ’em shoes wiv. ” 

“And did you say the chickens were walking in and 
out their front doors? And were pigs and goats in 
their yards ? ” 

“’Es, the chittens were walkin’ yight in and out er 
font doors; but er doats and piggies were jes only 
walkin’ in some of er ’ittle yards. Don’t you fink 
you tood send all er ’ittle dirls and boys to Glenwood 
Home?” 

“ I ’m afraid there are too many, Robin, and they 
are too far away. I will go there soon and see what I 
can do for them.” 

“Tan I doe wiv you, Bruver Paul ? ’tause when I det 
a dreat big lady, I ’m dawn to help you find all er poor 
’ittle dirls and boys in the world who dot no beyed 
and butter to eat. I tan wash er faces and make petty 
turls on er heads, and I tan take ’em petty desses, wiv 
ribbon shashes, shoes, too, and stockings; and wood n’t 


21 I 


The Story of a Little Poet 

Dotter Anjers fink I was dood ? ’tause he loves all er 
poor peoples, don’t he? ’ 

“ Why, he loves them so much, Robin, he is work- 
ing for them nearly all the time; and I want to be 
just like him when I grow up to be a man. But you 
must be very strong to do that kind of work, and Aunt 
Helen says if I think so much about the poor now, I 
will get sick, and never be a strong man, so I ’m going 
to try never to worry about them; only, if I should 
happen to see any one poor and hungry, I would have 
to take them something to eat, and maybe some clothes 
to wear, but that wouldn’t be worrying, you know. It 
Would only make me glad to help them.” 

“Ittoodn’t make any bodies sick jes to take some 
poor ’ittle dirls and boys beyed and butter, tood it? ” 

“No, I don’t see how it could; it would make me 
sick not to take them any if I knew they were starv- 
ing,” said Paul, gazing wistfully into the fire. Then 
the conversation was interrupted by Aunt Helen call- 
ing Grace up to her room. 

All Paul’s home-sick feelings had vanished; he had 
forgotten all about them in the one and all-absorbing 
thought that there existed near his new home a set- 
tlement of poor people, living in most dilapidated 
houses. He imagined, from Roy’s and Grace’s de- 
scription, that many of them must be without shoes 
and stockings; and this in the fall of the year was evi- 
dence of great poverty. He was building castles now 
and planning all the wonderful things he might do to 
help these people, if any of them were in actual want. 

He longed for some one to talk to who might advise 
and assist him, but he could not think of one who could 
be consulted satisfactorily in the matter. 


212 The Story of a Little Poet 

He would not for the world mention his plans to 
Aunt Helen, for he felt sure that he would in return 
receive only another lecture, and most likely she would 
forbid him ever approaching the place. He had al- 
ready received a number of lectures from her since his 
parents departed, which only had the effect of making 
him less confidential every day. 

Heretofore he had always been very free and out- 
spoken with all his thoughts, but he had begun now to 
keep things more to himself, and to hesitate very often 
before relating anything to his aunt for fear of her 
disapproval. 

“Now remember, Paul,” she had very often said, 
“no more thinking in corners; no more talk or silly 
notions about the poor. So much time every day 
must be spent in outdoor games. I always did think 
it ridiculous for a child of your age to so interest him- 
self in works of charity, and had I been your mother, 
I would have put a stop to it long ago ; but now I have 
an opportunity of showing her what my management 
will do, and you will be so rosy and robust when she 
returns that they won’t know you.” 

Paul always listened to these lectures with great 
respect, for he was too much of a little gentleman to 
speak rudely to his elders; nevertheless, they only 
made his heart grow a little colder toward her day by 
day, and the loss of those so dear to him was the more 
keenly felt, for there was no one now to whom he could 
go with all his perplexing questions, or from whom he 
could be sure to receive sympathy. 

In every other way Aunt Helen was a model aunt; 
nothing was too much trouble for her to do for the 
children. She romped with them by the hour, joined 


The Story of a Little Poet 213 

them in their games, assisted them with their lessons, 
and gave them the most watchful care. She failed 
only in one thing, — the art of managing little Paul 
in a way that would gain his affection; and this was 
simply because she did not understand him. 

She appeared to be very severe and unreasonable to 
Paul; but she really was only following out her own 
theories. 

She did not even show any appreciation for the little 
poems he wrote, although she was very proud of his 
talent; but she thought it was not wise for him to 
weary his brain by rhyming verses. 

“Give that up, too,” she had said. “Your school 
work is sufficient. The whole trouble is that your 
brain is too active, and you want more exercise for 
your body and less for your brain; so I do not want to 
see any more poetry while I have you in charge.” 

Owing to these rigid rules, which Aunt Helen tried 
to carry out, Paul was beginning to be very quiet in 
her presence, and even to shun her whenever it was 
possible to do so. He knew if his mother had been 
there that she would have been very much interested 
in these poor people, and would have gone immediately 
to see if any required help. 

He also knew that his mother and Aunt Helen did 
not agree on charitable subjects, for he had frequently 
listened to their arguments, and so felt satisfied that 
he was doing right in laying plans to help the poor 
people who lived near him. 

He came to the conclusion that he would not men- 
tion the subject to any one. There was only one that 
he knew would be interested and in sympathy with all 
his ideas in the matter, and that was baby Grace; but 


214 The Story of a Little Poet 

she was such a little tot, and in a moment of forgetful- 
ness might reveal the secret, did he take her into his 
confidence, even if she promised not to tell. 

Every day now he began to watch for an opportunity 
to visit Mill Hollow, which he had heard was the name 
of the settlement Roy had described. 

“ It cannot be wrong for me to go there,” he mused, 
‘‘for Mother would go; and it would only be right to 
do as one’s mother would, under the same circum- 
stances.” Then, too, he remembered what the Bible 
said about the poor ; and a sermon that Dr. Andrews 
once preached, taking for his text, “Whoso stoppeth 
his ears at the cry of the poor, he also shall cry him- 
self, but shall not be heard.” So of course it could 
not be wrong to do as the Bible said, even if Aunt 
Helen did not like the poor, he thought. 

But day after day passed, and it seemed that no 
opportunity presented itself for him to get away with- 
out being missed. 

The days were short, and it was three o’clock when 
he returned from school. Then generally he was 
sent out to romp and play with Roy and Grace, or 
went for a walk with his aunt. 

He often wished that she would turn in the direc- 
tion of Mill Hollow, but it seemed that she purposely 
avoided it; and so he began to give up all hope of ever 
getting there until his parents returned. 


CHAPTER XV 


I T was at the close of the services on a beautiful 
bright Sabbath morning, and Paul was passing out 
of the church door, when he was suddenly attracted by 
a weak, childish voice back of him, saying, “Angel 
child! Angel child! won’t you give me a crust of 
bread?” 

The voice and the words both startled him, and, turn- 
ing quickly, he saw a poor, ragged, little beggar girl, 
trembling and shivering, shrinking back behind a re- 
cess in the stone wall when she saw he was coming at 
her call. 

A tattered shawl covered her head and shoulders, 
which she held together with her thin little hands, 
stiff with cold; and she drew one foot up after the 
other from the snow-covered ground as she leaned up 
against the stone wall. 

Paul followed her, and for a few seconds neither 
spoke a word. The sight almost took his breath away ; 
but he quickly recovered himself, and laying his hand 
on her arm, said kindly, ‘ Did you say you were hun- 
gry, little girl ? ” 

“Yes, I’m starving, angel child!” she gasped, big 
tears dropping on her cheek, which she quickly brushed 
away with the back of her hands, and the shawl, being 
thus released, fell from her head and shoulders. She 
made no effort to replace it, but stood and wrung her 


2 i 6 The Story of a Little Poet 

hands in a manner that almost made the tears come to 
Paul’s own eyes. 

“ Poor little girl ! I am very sorry that you are so 
cold and hungry,” he said. “ But let me put my coat 
on you, it is very thick, and then I will get you some- 
thing to eat.” And as he spoke, he quickly unbuttoned 
it, and in a moment had it off and on the child, who 
simply stood and stared, making no objections to any- 
thing he did. 

After buttoning the coat up snugly about her, he 
took the shawl and tied it over her head, talking in his 
sweet way all the time. Then suddenly it occurred 
to him to take her in the church, where it was warm, 
while he went home for some bread. So he immedi- 
ately took her arm and said, “ Come, little girl, let me 
take you in the church; you will not feel at all cold in 
there, and I will run home as fast as I can and bring 
you as much food as you can eat.” 

“Oh, get me some bread!” sobbed the child, wring- 
ing her hands again, as she slowly walked along with 
Paul’s assistance. Then suddenly she turned, and 
pointing to a stained glass window representing Christ 
blessing little children, said, “ I called to Him to take 
me to my mother, who ’s up there in the skies; but He 
wouldn’t take me, see?” she gasped, growing very 
much excited, with a wild look in her eyes and a flush 
appearing on her cheeks. “ He is the Good Shepherd 
my mother told me about, and He loves little children 
who are all alone in the world; but I guess He don’t 
love me, because I asked Him again and again, and 
yet He won’t take me to Mother. I’m so hungry and 
cold! You ask Him, angel child, won’t you?” she 
said imploringly. “Maybe He will for you.” 


The Story of a Little Poet 217 

There was something very unnatural in the way the 
child spoke and acted, also in the expression of her 
face. 

“ It must be because she is very sick and weak, and 
don’t know what she is saying,” was the conclusion 
Paul came to while he listened to her queer talk about 
the Christ on the window, and wondered why she 
should call him angel child. 

“If you are so hungry, little girl, why won’t you 
come with me and sit down in the warm church while 
I go after the bread ? ” said Paul, trying to draw her 
away; but she still held back, looking wildly at the 
stained window. 

“You can see the Christ plainer inside than here, if 
you will only come,” he continued. 

“Oh, can I see Him plainer inside?” she asked, 
her breath coming in short gasps. “Then I ’ll go,” 
and immediately she allowed him to lead her. With 
tottering steps the poor child leaned confidingly against 
the little friend of the poor, whose heart was stirred to 
its very depths by the pitiful condition of this half- 
starved and friendless little waif. 

They were just about to enter the door when they 
met the sexton coming out, and he took a step back 
in surprise when he beheld the pair before him. No 
one else was around, the worshippers all having disap- 
peared on their homeward way. 

“Oh, Mr. Sands! please don’t lock the door!” said 
Paul, quickly. “ I want to take this little girl in the 
church to get warm, while I go home for some food for 
her. See how cold she is! ” 

“ Bless my soul ! ” exclaimed Mr. Sands, raising his 
hands, 'Tf this ain’t a pretty how-dy-do. And you 


2l8 


The Story of a Little Poet 

have put your coat on her, too. Goodness, child ! what 
would your folks say to that? You will get your death 
this cold morning.” 

“ Oh, no, I won’t. I do not feel a bit cold. Please 
let me take her in, Mr. Sands; she can hardly stand 
up, she is so cold and weak.” 

“She does look in a pretty bad way, that ’s a fact,” 
said Mr. Sands, eying the child very closely. “ I ’ve 
seen her standing in the alcove of the church door 
several times, but she seemed to be harmless, so I 
never sent her off; but they ’re a hard lot down there,” 
he went on, pointing toward Mill Hollow. “They all 
come from there, and I must be mighty careful about 
taking any of them in the church.” 

“ But what could happen, Mr. Sands, if a poor sick 
little girl just sat in a pew for a little while? I will 
soon be back with some food for her; then she will 
feel better and can go home.” 

“If you will give me the key I will lock the door 
after me, and take good care of the church ; and when 
I get her out again, I will leave the key at your house; 
indeed I will, Mr. Sands ; please do not say no ! ” For 
Mr. Sands still stood in the door, barring the way, hesi- 
tating to grant Paul’s request. 

He knew many of the children who came from Mill 
Hollow were only little thieves, and frequently feigned 
sickness, and resorted to all sorts of tricks to work on 
people’s sympathies; but he saw that this child was 
without doubt very ill, and it was quite evident she 
was sadly in need of food and warm clothing. 

“Well, I guess she can do no harm,” he finally said, 
stepping aside for them to enter, just as the beggar 
child gave a racking cough that shook her whole body, 


The Story of a Little Poet 219 

It only took Paul a few moments to place her com- 
fortably in a pew, while the old sexton followed and 
watched the proceedings with great interest, very 
much touched by the pathetic scene. 

“You need not wait for me to come back, Mr. 
Sands,” said Paul. “She said she would sit right 
here and wait for me, and if you will give me the key 
now I will close the door.” 

“All right, my little man; I guess I can trust you 
to look after things; but let me see first if you are 
able to manage the lock.” So saying, he closed the 
door and handed the key to Paul, who found no trouble 
whatever in turning the lock, and in another moment 
the key was placed safely in his pocket, and he was 
running down the road as fast as his two legs could 
carry him ; while the sexton walked off in an opposite 
direction toward his home, and occasionally turning 
for a glimpse of the little flying figure whose interest 
in a poor beggar child was so great. It made him feel 
that his own heart must be quite stony, for never once 
had he asked her if he could do anything for her, 
when he had seen her near the church, waiting, as he 
thought, to beg from the worshippers on their way out. 

Dinner was ready at “The Oaks,” a name Paul had 
given their new home; his other one had a name, and 
why not this, even if it was small, he had thought. 

Aunt Helen stood at the door, looking up and down 
the road anxiously. 

“It is very strange what has become of him,” she 
thought. “ I do not see a sign of him anywhere.” 

When she missed him on their way from church, 
she thought he had stopped to talk to some of the 
church people, as he frequently did; but the roads 


220 The Story of a Little Poet 

now were quite deserted, and still no Paul made his 
appearance. 

Finally she called up the stairs to Roy, and asked 
him if he had seen anything of him after services. 

“Why, yes, I saw the Perseffer after church,” he 
called over the banisters. “ He found one of his 
beggars by the church, and he stopped to talk to her. ” 

“Are you very sure you were not mistaken, Roy? ” 
she asked, very much displeased at the possibility of 
such a thing. “ I did not see any beggar when I came 
out, and Paul was right behind me.” 

“ But she was there, for I saw her,” said Roy. “ She 
was behind the wall, and she peeped out at the Perseffer 
when he walked by her.” 

“Dear! Dear! It is too provoking, after all my 
pains,” said Aunt Helen, walking up and down the 
hall quite excitedly. 

“ I believe I will go after him, for there is no telling 
how long he will stay, or what he will do if there ’s a 
beggar in the question. You might as well come 
down and eat your dinner, children,” she called up the 
stairs, while she again put on her coat and hat. 

When she stepped out on the porch she saw him com- 
ing at a breakneck speed, and without his overcoat. 

“ My dear boy, what does all this mean ? ” she asked, 
taking him by the arm when he reached the porch, 
panting for breath. “You are nearly exhausted, child, 
and blue with cold. Where is your coat ? ” She led 
him in while she spoke and seated him on a chair in 
the hall, until he recovered sufficiently to talk. 

It was only for a moment, however; for so excited 
was he, and so anxious for the poor starving child, 
whom he feared might die before he returned, if he did 


221 


The Story of a Little Poet 

not hurry with food, that he for once had no fear of 
his Aunt Helen, or her opinions about the poor. 

“I found a poor child starving and freezing,” he 
gasped, holding his sides as if to still the fast-beating 
heart. “ I had to put my coat on her, for she was so 
cold, and I must take her some food right away, or she 
might die before I get there,” and he arose from the 
chair and started toward the kitchen. But Aunt Helen 
held him back, — 

“ You will please sit right here for a while until you 
compose yourself,” she said. “You will be the one to 
die, Paul Arlington, and not the beggar child, if you 
allow yourself to get so excited and run until you are 
ready to drop. Now tell me quietly, where is this 
beggar ? ” 

“In the church sitting in a pew.” 

“ In a pew ! ” exclaimed Aunt Helen. “ I hope not 
ours. Who put her there ? ” 

“I did. The sexton said I might, and that she could 
stay there until I came back with some food. I have 
the key of the church in my pocket.” 

“ And do you mean to tell me you have locked the 
child in the church alone? ” 

“Yes, all alone,” replied Paul, recovering some- 
what. “ But she will be warm there, and when I take 
her something to eat she will feel better and can go 
home.” 

“I think the sexton ought to be discharged for per- 
mitting such a thing,” said Aunt Helen. 

“ Oh, please let me go now ! ” implored Paul. “ It 
won’t take me long, and she is waiting for me.” 

“If you are tired, I’ll take the beggar a loaf of 
bread,” said Roy, who, with Grace, had come to see 


222 


The Story of a Little Poet 

what, all the trouble was about. Grace had been listen- 
ing to every word with the greatest interest, and, like 
Paul, her little heart went out in deepest sympathy for 
the poor little girl he was telling about alone in the 
church. 

“’Es, let Roy take er poor ’ittle dirl some beyed, 
if you are tired, Bruver Paul,” she said. 

“No, I must take it myself. You see I am ac- 
quainted with her now, and she is so sick she might 
get frightened if she sees any one else. Oh, please, 
Aunt Helen, just let me go this once!” She hesi- 
tated a moment, then said, “Well, I suppose there 
is no other alternative now, if she is locked in the 
church; but remember, as soon as you give her the 
food, let her out and come home immediately.” 

To Paul’s delight, she actually assisted Hulda to fill 
a basket with eatables, and also made a bundle of a 
nice warm shawl and hood, then helped him on with 
his school overcoat. 

“Now, Master Paul, your little beggar girl will 
surely be good and warm with these on, and forget all 
about her hunger when she eats all this,” said Hulda. 
“ Come back as quickly as you can to get your dinner, 
and I will keep it nice and hot for you.” 

“And,” added Aunt Helen, as she threw after him 
a roll of paper, “ wrap your best coat in that as soon 
as you can take it off the child. I suppose it will 
be necessary to disinfect it before you ever wear it 
again.” 

He fastened everything securely on a sled, then 
away he went again as happy as a king. 

He promised his aunt he would not run back so fast. 
It was impossible, however, to do so with his sled and 


The Story of a Little Poet 223 

its load ; but he got over the snow-covered ground as 
quickly as possible, and never stopped until he reached 
the church. The beggar child was still in the pew 
just where he had placed her, gazing at the stained 
window before her like one entranced. 

She was aroused by Paul’s footstep and turned 
eagerly toward him when he approached, and when 
she saw the basket, began to act very queer indeed. 
She clutched nervously at Paul’s coat, which she still 
had on, and her body trembled from head to foot ; and 
she sobbed and made strange moaning sounds, gazing 
with that wild look at the basket all the while. 

“ I hurried as fast as I could,” said Paul, panting. 
“ And I have brought you a nice warm shawl and hood, 
and lots of things to eat. Come, let me take off the 
coat now, for it is very warm in here ; and before you 
go I will wrap you up in this,” he said, holding up the 
shawl. Then throwing it across the pew, he took off 
the coat, then sat beside her with the basket, and 
handed her a piece of bread from it. The poor child 
clutched at it and devoured it ravenously. “She is 
worse than Moll,” thought Paul, as he tried to coax her 
to eat slowly. 

“Don’t be frightened,” he said soothingly, for she 
still continued to shake and make queer noises in her 
throat. He could not understand her strange actions, 
and why she should shiver when she was now in such 
a warm place; but he came to the conclusion that it 
was all because she was very sick and nearly starved 
to death. 

“Will you tell me your name? ” he asked, when he 
thought she had eaten enough for a time. 

“Nell Myers,” she replied. 


224 The Story of a Little Poet 

“And will you tell me where you live, Nell? for if 
you are not strong enough, I will take you home on 
the sled.” 

“I don’t live nowheres now,” sobbed the child, 
“and I have no home. Father has left me, and I 
have no place to go.” 

“ Have you really no home at all ? ” asked Paul, in 
astonishment. “And have you lived on the streets all 
your life? ” 

“I have lived with Mrs. Stein since Father left me 
until to-day; and I can’t go back there again, for she 
ain’t got enough for her own children to eat, and I 
can’t take it any more, angel child, indeed I can’t; it 
chokes me.” 

“ Was this Mrs. Stein good to you ? ” 

“Yes, she was good and kind; but she is very poor 
now, and has no money to buy her own children bread, 
and I can’t go back, I can’t go back ! ” she sobbed, 
beginning to tremble again. “I thought He would 
take me to-day,” she continued, pointing to the Christ 
on the window. “I came to ask Him while they were 
singing in the church, but He would n’t ! He would n’t, 
and I want to go to Mother; but He told me to ask His 
angel child for bread, and that is you, and you did, 
did n’t you? Why won’t He take me, though, when I 
want to go? It is so cold and dark in the world,” she 
sobbed, growing quite hysterical. 

Paul was at his wits’ ends to know what to say to 
soothe the child, also to know what would be best to 
do with her. 

His little brain was in a whirl for a time. He must 
get her out soon, but where should he take her? Not 
to his own home, for he knew his aunt would never 


The Story of a Little Poet 225 

receive her in their house, and he could not leave her 
standing out in the cold alone. 

Suddenly an idea occurred to him : to take the 
money he had in his little iron savings bank at home 
and pay this Mrs. Stein board for her. “ She said that 
she was good and kind to her, but too poor to keep 
her. It will also help Mrs. Stein along, too. Why 
didn’t I think of that sooner?” he wondered. 

Poor Nell was leaning back now in the pew, shak- 
ing and sobbing, watching Paul with eager eyes ; and 
when he turned to tell her of his plans for her, she 
suddenly began to cough, so hard, indeed, that she 
leaned over and rested her head in her two hands. 
Paul thought she would never stop. He never saw 
any one in such a paroxysm before. He thought of 
the pitcher of water the minister generally had under 
the pulpit, and he hurried off to see if it was still 
there. He found some, and pouring it in a glass, 
returned quickly to the poor exhausted child, and held 
it to her lips while she eagerly drank. Then she lay 
back again and said, “Angel child, won’t you sing for 
me as the good people did to-day in the church? ” 

“ I will sing a little for you if you promise me that 
you will let me take you back to Mrs. Stein’s after- 
wards. I am going to pay her board for you, then she 
will have some money to buy you bread, and some for 
her own children, too.” 

“Oh, you are so good! You are so good, angel 
child !” she said, sobbing again. “ He would not take 
me, but He sent you to take care of me, did n’t He? ” 
“You must not call me angel child,” said Paul, 
“because I am not an angel.” 

“Oh, yes, you are,” she quickly replied, very much 

15 


226 The Story of a Little Poet 

excited, and looking at Paul with a wild, unnatural 
look, which quite startled him. “You must not say 
you are not, because He sent you; He told me so.” 

“She doesn’t know what she is saying,” thought 
Paul, “and I must not contradict her again. Her 
mind must be weak like Mother’s when she had 
typhoid fever, for she said so many queer things, I 
remember, and took me for an elephant once when I 
walked in the room.” 

Then he quieted her by saying, “Yes, He sent me, 
Nell, to take care of you, to bring you bread, then to 
take you back to Mrs. Stein’s again, and she will be 
paid to keep you.” 

“I knew He did, I knew He did,” repeated Nell, 
smiling, and throwing her head back again as if very 
weary. “Now sing, angel child, please sing,” she 
said, closing her eyes. 

Paul walked up to the pulpit, where stood on one 
side a small parlor-organ, used for the Sabbath school 
children when in session. 

He seated himself, and throwing his head back, 
thought for a moment what to sing. He knew very 
little about notes, but had a wonderful ear for music, 
and could play in his own way any tune with which he 
was familiar; and he had also composed many little 
airs. When he accompanied himself, he simply struck 
a chord now and then that harmonized with the notes 
he sang. 

He thought of several songs and hymns before he 
decided on one. She must be thinking a great deal 
about angels and heaven and the Christ, so I think she 
will like 

“ Angels ever bright and fair, 

Take, oh, take me to thy care,” 






The Story of a Little Poet 227 

he thought, and immediately struck a chord. Instantly 
the beggar child raised her head and looked around in 
a startled manner; then she saw the figure at the 
organ, and she leaned over and rested her arms on the 
pew in front; and with her breath coming quick and 
short, she stared in wonder at the little singer, and 
strained her ear to catch every word. 

His voice was unusually sweet and pathetic, for he 
was singing just as he felt. Now his voice was low, 
with tender pathos, then higher it rose and clearer, 
thrilling the heart of the sick child with a joy so great 
that it seemed to her fevered brain that she was being 
lifted up and borne away while he sang. She leaned 
farther over the pew on her folded arms, then still 
farther. Her eyes opened very wide, and she became 
thoroughly aroused from the stupor that had come over 
her before he began. 

A bright spot burned on each cheek, and though her 
temples were throbbing with the fever within, she felt 
it not as she gazed at the profile of the face before 
her. 

Finally her eyes wandered to the Christ in the win- 
dow with a halo about His head and the happy children 
about His knee, clothed in spotless white. 

The sun streamed brightly through the window, so 
wonderful, and so real to the beggar child, every part 
of it seemed clear and distinct. 

The rays shone in a diagonal direction, striking Paul 
at the organ, while Nell sat back in the shadow in one 
of the pews. It seemed to her fevered brain that the 
rays in some way connected the two as she followed 
them from the window to Paul. 

“ He must have been one of those little children at 


228 


The Story of a Little Poet 

His knee,” she thought, “and He has sent him out of 
the window to sing for me.” 

“Yes,” the Christ seemed to say, “I have sent him 
and he will take good care of you until I am ready to 
call you.” 

All pain and suffering were lulled for the time, 
while Paul still sang on; and all sorts of strange 
fancies filled the brain of the sick child in the pew 
while she listened to the words that thrilled her, and 
seemed to be intended for her, — 

“Angels ever bright and fair, 

Take, oh, take me to thy care, etc.” 

When the last note died away, Nell still sat in the 
same position and stared, watching every movement of 
Paul’s, until he descended from the pulpit and came 
down close beside her. 

“Come, we must go now, Nell,” he said, taking the 
shawl and fastening it around her securely with the 
two large pins Hulda had thoughtfully stuck in it. 

Then he put the hood on her head, and took her arm 
to lead her out. 

“I will sing for you again sometime,” he said, “if 
you will come with me now. You need not be afraid 
to go to Mrs. Stein’s, for she will be glad to see you, 
and take care of you, because she will have money to 
buy all the bread she wants.” 

“If you ’ll sing for me again sometime, I will go,” 
she said, turning her large black eyes upon Paul with 
a strange, unnatural look. 

“He sent you, didn’t He, angel child?” she went 
on, pointing to the Christ as they stepped from the pew 
in the aisle. 


The Story of a Little Poet 229 

“Yes, He sent me,” replied Paul, beginning now to 
realize the child’s condition, and seeing that there was 
something wrong with her mind. He noticed plainly 
the flush on her cheeks, which seemed to grow deeper 
each moment, and he felt sure now that it was caused 
by fever, and that, of course, accounted for her queer 
talk and actions. 

As soon as he got her outside, he fixed her comfort- 
ably on the sled, tied securely to it the basket, with 
the remainder of the food, then used her old shawl and 
his school coat for afghans to tuck snugly about her. 
He had changed the overcoats, thinking Aunt Helen 
would prefer he should use his school coat as an afghan 
in preference to his best one, and forgetting entirely 
the bundle of paper she had thrown after him, and her 
orders to be sure and wrap his best coat up in it. 

He then carefully closed the church door, and started 
off with his precious burden to find a home for her in 
Mill Hollow. He never imagined his long-looked-for 
visit there would be under such circumstances as these. 

He stopped at the sexton’s door, which was on the 
way, and handed the key to his wife, who answered his 
knock. 

“Tell Mr. Sands I fastened everything up all right,” 
he said, politely raising his hat, and before the woman 
had a chance to say a word he was off. 

Up the hill he trudged, hurrying as fast as he could 
with his load, keeping a close watch on Nell, stopping 
now and then to tuck about her more securely the 
shawl and coat. 

“Are you cold?” he would ask, for the poor child 
was shivering and her teeth chattering, though she 
made no complaint. 


230 The Story of a Little Poet 

She only shook her head in answer to his questions 
and closed her eyes occasionally, as though falling off 
to sleep. 

“I must hurry,” thought Paul, “for she must be 
very cold. I guess it is because she is so sick.” 

Soon he reached the top of the hill, and stood for a 
moment to take breath, while he gazed below at the 
little settlement with great curiosity. 

It lay at the foot of two steep hills, which arose 
from it on either side, and close by a running stream, 
near which stood an old mill ; and on both sides of 
the stream were a number of small houses and shanties, 
their roofs covered with snow. 

It was not such hard work going down the hill, and 
Paul made much better progress. The first building 
he came to was a small liquor shop, outside of which 
stood a number of men and boys, watching the strange 
procession coming toward them. 

When he approached them he asked in his polite and 
earnest manner, — 

“Will you please tell me where Mrs. Stein lives? 
for this is a little girl who lives with her, and she is 
very sick, and I want to get her home quickly.” 

“It is Fred Myers’ Nell, as sure as I ’m alive,” said 
one who had stepped up close to the sled and peered in 
the face almost enveloped in the large hood. 

“There ’s her home,” said another, pointing up the 
narrow road. “You can’t miss it, for it is the only 
three-story brick in the place. But where did you find 
her, boy ? ” 

“ I found her by the church ; she is very sick, and 
nearly starved. I gave her some food to eat, and I 
think she feels better; but she has a fever, and does n’t 


The Story of a Little Poet 231 

know what she is saying. My mother had a fever 
once, and I know how it is. Your head, you know, 
is not right, and you think all sorts of strange things; 
and Nell called me angel child, and thought the 
Christ in the church window-pane had sent me to take 
care of her; but I will tell you more about her when 
I come back. I must hurry now, for see how she is 
shivering.” 

The group had closed around him in astonishment 
and listened to every word with the gravest attention. 
He stood so fearless, so dignified, and yet looking so 
innocent and gentle, talking in his earnest way so 
feelingly of Fred Myers’ little Nell that the coarsest 
nature among them was touched as silently they moved 
to make way for him. 

“Good-by,” he said. “Thank you very much for 
showing me.” 

“Jiminy! ef that hain’t the greatest sight I ever 
seen,” remarked one, shaking his head, while they all 
stood looking after him. 

“ Indade, it made the tears cum to me very eyes to 
hear the loikes av him talk,” said a red-haired Irish- 
man. “Shure, boys, an’ his face is loike an angil’s; 
an’, faith, it ’s no place for the loikes av him to be 
afther visitin’.” 

“ He is one of the children who moved in Ramsey’s 
old house,” said one. “I have seen him before, and 
heard tell that his father was ill and taken across the 
ocean.” 

“Oi ’ll kape me eye on the young un, whoever he 
be, till he ’s safe out av this black hole, thot Oi will,” 
said the Irishman. 

When Paul arrived at the house, he was indeed sur- 


232 The Story of a Little Poet 

prised to find it the largest and most respectable in 
the place, and he wondered how it was that Mrs. Stein 
could live in the best house and yet had not enough 
money to feed her children sufficiently with the plain- 
est food, as Nell had told him. But he did not know 
until later that it was a tenement, and that Mrs. Stein 
only occupied two small rooms on the third floor. 

When he knocked at the door, a dozen faces appeared 
at the windows; then the door opened, and nearly as 
many more appeared ; and Paul wondered if they were 
all Mrs. Stein’s family, and thought that it was no 
wonder she found great difficulty in feeding them. 

A woman stepped out on the step in front of them 
all, and Paul raised his hat so politely she was nearly 
taken off her feet. 

“Is Mrs. Stein at home? ” he asked. 

“What do you want of her? ” she said, coming down 
on the sidewalk and pulling apart the hood which Nell 
wore. 

“Goodness sakes! if it ain’t Nell Myers. Where 
did you find her, boy?” she exclaimed. “I thought 
she was too sick to go out.” 

“I found her by the church, nearly frozen,” said 
Paul, who was now surrounded by ten or fifteen chil- 
dren, all gazing at him with wide-open eyes and 
mouths, then at their sick little neighbor of the third 
floor huddled in a heap on the sled. 

“You did, hey! Found her away over in Avondale 
by the church? Well, it ’s mighty queer how she ever 
walked that far. Jane,” said the woman, addressing 
a girl of about fourteen years, who with the others was 
staring in wonder at Paul, “go up and tell Mrs. 
Stein Nell Myers is down here too sick to walk up- 


The Story of a Little Poet 233 

stairs, and if she ’ll get a place ready, I ’ll carry her 
up.” 

The girl ran ahead, while the woman lifted Nell up 
bodily in her strong, brawny arms and started after 
her, and Paul followed with the basket, leaving the 
sled by the door. 

Poor Mrs. Stein was surprised indeed when she 
heard the story. She thought Nell had stepped in 
next door to see a little girl of about her own age, the 
only child in all Mill Hollow whose company she 
sought, and with whom Mrs. Stein knew she spent a 
great deal of her time. 

Mrs. Stein with her four children occupied two rooms, 
which were kept as clean as soap and water could make 
them ; nevertheless, they bespoke great poverty. 

Paul’s heart sank within him when he saw the bare 
floors and the few pieces of furniture of the cheapest 
kind. 

Mrs. Stein stood at the door to receive them when 
they came up. She was a short little German woman. 
Her black hair was parted and smoothed straight be- 
hind her ears. A long string of boys and girls fol- 
lowed Paul, all eager to see more of him and hear him 
talk; for it was something unheard of in Mill Hollow 
for any child who lived among the fine people in Avon- 
dale to come in their midst on any errand alone, and 
for one to come on an errand of mercy had never been 
known before. 

Tears stood in Mrs. Stein’s eyes when she saw Nell, 
and it drew Paul to her immediately. They were not 
only shed in sympathy for poor Nell, but also on 
account of her inability to look after her, and provide 
for her the nourishing food she required. 


234 The Story of a Little Poet 

She pointed to an inner room, and wiped her eyes 
with her calico apron, as she said to her neighbor who 
carried Nell: “Vill you be goot enough to lay her in 
dere? I vos sorry I ain’d got noddings better, but I 
vos a poor woman mit little work dish winter,” she 
went on, leading the way and helping to place Nell on 
the old rickety cot. 

She looked at Paul when she spoke, as though it was 
meant principally for him. 

“She told me you had been good and kind to her,” 
said Paul, following them without an invitation in the 
next room. 

“ Och ! I ’ve not been as goot as I ought to the 
child,” said Mrs. Stein, the tears now rolling down 
her cheeks, while she leaned over Nell and took off 
the hood and shawl, and arranged her as comfortably as 
possible, covering her with an old ragged quilt. 

“I got no money, mine leetle friendt, to get enough 
bread for my own family,” she went on. “But dot 
girl she vos a goot one, und I love her, und I pity her. 
Her mudder vos dead, und her fadder drinks und vos 
not kind to her; den he leave her, and never cum back.” 

“It’s very sad,” said Paul, with a sigh, standing 
close beside the cot, watching Nell with a new inter- 
est, while Mrs. Stein related something of her life. 

Her eyes were closed, and apparently she was sleep- 
ing and oblivious to all that was going on. 

“ If you love her and were kind to her, but have not 
enough money to feed her, I will send you some every 
week, Mrs. Stein, and I would like her to stay with 
you.” 

“Vot ish dosh you say?” exclaimed Mrs. Stein, 
scarcely believing her own ears, while Mrs. Carter, of 


The Story of a Little Poet 235 

the first floor, stood with arms akimbo and stared in 
amazement at Paul, wondering whether they were being 
visited by some fairy, who would be able to grant their 
every wish. And the children in the doorway, who 
had followed them in, looked at one another with sur- 
prised faces when they heard what Paul said. 

“ I will send you some money every week for Nell’s 
board; that is what I said,” continued Paul. “So 
you can buy food for her, and have enough for yourself 
and children too.” 

“Veil, if I could get a leetle money dot would help 
me along, mine leetle friendt, vy, I loogs after her 
goot. Dot sick child, she don’t know how sick she be, 
und I don’t t’ink she live drew dish winder.” 

“Do you really think she will not live through the 
winter?” said Paul, his voice full of sympathy and 
surprise, while his eyes filled with tears. 

“Yah, mein air, dot vos so; och, my! och, my!” 
said Mrs. Stein, shaking her head sorrowfully as she 
looked down again on poor Nell’s thin face and watched 
her labored breathing. 

“ But if she gets plenty to eat now, and is kept nice 
and warm, don’t you think she will get well after a 
while? ” 

“Nein, nein, mine leetle friendt, she vos too far 
gone. See how short she breathe, den don’t you see 
her drubles vos too much here for her,” said Mrs. 
Stein, laying her hand against her heart. “ She vos a 
goot leetle t’ing, und I nuss her just vat I can.” 

“I know you will take good care of her now,” said 
Paul; “and if you will please empty this basket, I will 
go home. If she should ask for me when she gets 
awake, tell her I will be here soon again,” 


236 The Story of a Little Poet 

“ I danks you, und your goot families always, for you 
vos goot und kind,” said Mrs. Stein, handing him the 
empty basket. 

“Do not worry about the money,” said Paul; “I 
will bring it soon,” and with one more longing look 
at Nell, and a good-by which was meant for all, he 
walked toward the door. 

The children stepped aside to enable him to get 
through the door. Many were standing in the halls 
and on the stairs, too, as he made his way down to the 
door. A number of men and women were also among 
them. 

Word had passed from one to another that a beauti- 
ful boy had found Nell Myers nearly dead by the 
church in Avondale, and had brought her all the way 
home on his sled; and it was not long before nearly all 
the residents in Mill Hollow heard of it, and with 
shawls and aprons thrown over their heads, they 
emerged from their miserable homes, and made for 
the house where Mrs. Stein lived, many walking in 
the halls and even up the stairs, eager to get a glimpse 
of the child who had been so kind to poor Nell Myers. 

When he stepped outside the door, a crowd of chil- 
dren surrounded the sled, making all sorts of remarks 
about it. 

“Hain’t it a beaut?” said a little girl, who had al- 
ready taken possession of the low seat which was fas- 
tened on it. 

“Naw, it hain’t worth a cent with that air on. I ’d 
chop that up to smithers; it ’s a girl’s sled,” remarked 
a red-faced little boy, looking at it rather enviously 
notwithstanding what he said, and longing to own it, 
for the seat could easily be gotten rid of. 


The Story of a Little Poet 237 

All talking ceased, however, when Paul appeared, 
and they all stepped aside for him to take the sled. 

Paul heard this last remark and noticed their envious 
looks, and saw the little girl jump off quickly when he 
approached, as though being afraid of being caught 
taking possession of it. 

Immediately Paul thought: “Poor little things! I 
guess they never had a real sled. What fun they 
would have with this one ! I guess Grace would not 
care if I left it; she can get another.” 

He stood only a few seconds thinking, then he 
handed the rope to the little girl who had been sitting 
on it, and said, “ If you would like to have the sled, I 
will give it to you. I know you will often give them 
all a turn, but you can call it yours.” 

The child’s hands closed on the rope with a tight 
grip, and her thanks and delight were only shown by 
the expression of her face, which was enough for Paul 
without any words. 

“Good-by, all,” he said, raising his hat in his usual 
polite manner, and off he started on a run, thoroughly 
aroused now to the situation and his long absence from 
home. How angry his Aunt Helen would be, espe- 
cially as he remembered for the first time her instruc- 
tions about returning immediately home, and the 
wrapping of his coat in the paper. That very coat 
was on his back, and his school coat he carried on his 
arm. 

The inhabitants of Mill Hollow looked after him 
until he was lost to sight, and they thought and talked 
of nothing else the rest of the day. They had never 
seen so beautiful a face before, neither did they ever 
hear a child talk in such a manner; but what impressed 


238 The Story of a Little Poet 

them the most, after all, was his tender care of Nell 
Myers, whom they all knew. They also knew that she 
was half starved as well as ill, and that Mrs. Stein 
was very poor that winter, being unable to get suffi- 
cient work, but that she shared her last crust with 
Nell ; yet not one had offered to do anything for her, 
though many were better able to feed her than poor 
Mrs. Stein. 

Mrs. Carter was the centre of attraction after Paul 
had disappeared. She had carried Nell upstairs, and 
heard all that was said, and saw all that was done, so 
to her they all went for information. 

“Law me! she ’s in luck, she ’s in luck,” she kept 
saying, meaning Mrs. Stein. “I would n’t mind bein’ 
in her shoes meself. She ’ll make on it, mark my 
word. I wish I had such a good chance; but then I 
won’t begrudge her; she was so good when my Jane 
was sick two years ago, setten up with her nights and 
buyen her orangies and ice cream, and I can’t begrudge 
her. I never seen anything like that boy in me whole 
life; he’ll not live long, I ’ll be bound. I ’m thinkin’ 
he ’s too good for this place. I hain’t shed a tear 
sence me Bill died, but, bless me soul! I cum near it 
when I hered him talk so feelin’ like of Nell Myers, 
and payin’ Mrs. Stein board for her.” 

When Paul reached the saloon he was still on a 
run. The same men still stood before the door, look- 
ing out for his return. 

The Irishman who had been determined to keep his 
eye on him had started to walk toward Mrs. Stein’s 
house, when he saw he had entered the door, and was 
quite a while making his appearance; but before he 
arrived there, he saw him come out, then retraced his 


The Story of a Little Poet 239 

steps back to the saloon to join his companions, 
expecting Paul to stop again and entertain them by 
relating more about his finding little Nell, as he had 
promised; but he, as well as they all, was very much 
disappointed, for Paul did not even stop, but called 
out as he ran by, “ I am very sorry, but I can’t stop 
now; it is too late. I will tell you about her the next 
time I come.” 

On, on he ran, now climbing the hill and panting 
at a great rate, thinking only of his aunt’s displeasure 
and anxiety at his long absence. When he arrived at 
the top of the hill, the first person he saw was none 
other than his Aunt Helen herself, making for Mill 
Hollow with all possible speed. He was so long in 
returning that she thought it advisable to go in search 
of him. 

Imagine her surprise, upon arriving at the church 
door, to find it locked; and seeing the tracks of the 
sled going in the direction of Mill Hollow, she was 
convinced that he had taken the beggar child to that 
disreputable place. Of course, she imagined that was 
where she came from ; for she had heard that all beg- 
gars seen in Avondale came from Mill Hollow. 

As fast as her feet could carry her, she followed the 
tracks of the sled; and when she saw Paul appear at 
the top of the hill, safe and sound, it was a relief that 
could be better imagined than described. 

“Is it possible, Paul Arlington,” she exclaimed, 
“that you have been down in Mill Hollow among the 
thieves and beggars ? ” 

“I only took the little girl home, Aunt Helen. I 
had to, because she was too weak to walk.” 

“You make me very angry, Paul, with all this fool- 


240 The Story of a Little Poet 

ishness about beggars. Don’t you know that you can- 
not believe half of them ? and that they resort to all 
sorts of tricks to work on the sympathies of soft-hearted, 
innocent people like yourself, who accept all they say 
as gospel truth ? I believe that girl feigned sickness 
just to get you down in Mill Hollow, and perhaps rob 
you. It is a wonder to me that they did not steal your 
clothes from off your back.” 

Paul felt the blood mounting to his cheeks at these 
words, which seemed to him very unkind as well as 
untrue. He was wishing she had only seen Nell; for 
then she could not help but be convinced that her 
condition was not feigned. But he well knew that 
there was no use in arguing the matter. She was very 
angry, and there was nothing he could say that would 
excuse his actions satisfactorily to her. 

“ I am thankful that you at least escaped with your 
life,” continued Aunt Helen, as they walked rapidly 
along toward home. “The responsibility of looking 
after you, Paul, during your parents’ absence, is, I 
fear, more than I bargained for; and I am very much 
discouraged that I am so far not able to break you of 
this foolish notion of thinking that you must be run- 
ning after every beggar that you see on the streets.” 

“I am sorry to so displease you, Aunt Helen,” said 
Paul, in a choking voice; “but it seems that I cannot 
help it about the poor.” 

Aunt Helen looked down into his face and said noth- 
ing for a moment ; she could not have spoken then, 
even if she wanted to very badly. She felt very much 
like giving him a hug, and telling him never to mind, 
that she did not mean to be so cross; but no, that 
would never do. She must show her displeasure at 


The Story of a Little Poet 241 

all such actions, if she ever wished to cure him of 
them. 

Paul's eyes were filled with tears, and he heaved a 
deep sigh, and looked away off at the deep blue sky 
overhead, as the words of the Scripture came to his 
mind again, “ Whoso stoppeth his ears at the cry of 
the poor, shall cry himself, but shall not be heard.” 
Then his conscience seemed to tell him that he was 
doing right. 


CHAPTER XVI 


P AUL was glad he had an opportunity of being 
entirely alone with his thoughts later in the after- 
noon; for he had so much on his mind in assuming 
such a great responsibility, it seemed impossible to 
think of anything else. Aunt Helen was lying down 
exhausted, after her long walk and anxiety, while Hulda 
had taken Roy and Grace out for a walk, so Paul sat 
alone in his favorite chair by the grate fire. Aunt Helen, 
thinking he, like herself, had had sufficient exercise for 
one day, told Paul it would be advisable for him to take 
a nap on the couch. He did try to do as she requested, 
but sleep was impossible. He could not keep his eyes 
closed, and finally, when the house was quiet, he arose 
and seated himself in the armchair, gazing into the 
burning coals, as though he were sure of finding satis- 
factory answers there to all the questions he was asking 
himself. 

“ There is only enough money in my bank to pay 
two weeks’ board for Nell. Now how can I get more 
when that is gone?” That was the most important 
question of all. 

One idea after another revolved in his brain, but was 
always followed by some objection that made it im- 
possible ; but suddenly his eyes blinked very fast indeed, 
his face brightened up, and he leaned forward in his 
chair, looking closer at the burning coals. Surely he 


The Story of a Little Poet 243 

saw something there that was very satisfactory. Then 
suddenly he clasped his hands, jumped up, and walked 
up and down the floor quite excitedly. “ I have it ! 
I have it ! ” he exclaimed, “ and Nell can have bread as 
long as she lives.” The more he thought of his plan, 
the surer he was of his success. Presently he sat down 
again, and tried to map out in his mind just the course 
he would take in carrying it out. “ I will begin to- 
night,” he thought, “ and no one will know anything 
about it. I am sorry Father and Mother are not home, 
for they could help me, and so would Dr. Andrews, but 
as they are not here, and as Aunt Helen does not love 
the poor, I must do it all myself. 

“ To-morrow morning I will take five dollars down to 
Mrs. Stein before school. If I start just a little earlier, 
I shall have time to stop there and catch the train at 
Fall Brook Station, which is near Mill Hollow. Then, 
before I come home from school, I will stop at the 
stores and get all the things for my books, and I know 
I shall soon have some made, and sell them in Chicago.” 
And so ran his thoughts, as he sat undisturbed for an 
hour. By the time the children returned, everything 
was clear in his mind, all obstacles removed, and his 
heart light and happy, notwithstanding Aunt Helen’s 
displeasure of the morning. Everything else was of 
little moment now, save the one absorbing thought of 
carrying out his plan for the sick little beggar girl. 

That night after Roy had gone off to sleep, Paul 
slipped out of bed and took five dollars from his bank, 
and placed it in the pocket of his school jacket; 
also an extra half-dollar for some purchases he intended 
to make, for he did not wish to run the least possible 
chance of forgetting it in the morning. Then he com- 


244 The Story of a Little Poet 

menced to compose a poem which was a part of his 
great plan. The light was not very bright in the room, 
but he feared to have it brighter, for Aunt Helen might 
step in and wonder what was going on. He lay in bed 
with pencil and paper, and when he heard a footstep, 
slipped them under his pillow and lay quite still for 
a time, then brought them out again and continued to 
puzzle his brain in making lines rhyme to express in a 
way that was satisfactory to himself the story of Little 
Nell, which he had thought appropriate for the first 
poem to place in this wonderful book he had planned and 
that was to be sold to support her. When Aunt Helen 
slipped quietly in the room to put out the light before 
retiring, she did not know that one child was still 
awake. He lay quite still with his eyes closed, clasping 
under the pillow the paper and pencil. It was some- 
time after the house had become quiet that Paul’s weary 
little brain was at rest; and though the day had been 
such an exciting one, he was awake earlier than usual 
the next morning, starting for school at least a half-hour 
sooner than was his regular custom. 

When he reached Mrs. Stein’s room, he was com- 
pletely out of breath, and when she appeared in answer 
to his knock, he was unable to speak for a moment. 

“ Vy, mein chile, vot ish der madder mit yer? Yer 
run too fast right avay. Gome in, sit down once,” she 
said, wiping off a chair with her apron. 

“ Thank you, Mrs. Stein, but I haven’t time to sit 
down. I only stopped to see how Nell was, and to 
bring you this money for her board. Do you think 
five dollars will be enough for a week? ” he said, hand- 
ing her the bill. 

“ Och, mein chile, dot vos plenty. I danks yer goot 


The Story of a Little Poet 245 

people for dere kindness,” replied the kind-hearted 
German woman. “ I vill fix der chile up comfortable 
like, and buy a new planket for her. She ish not any 
better dish mornin’, leetle friend, und vos callen ‘ angel 
chile ’ all der time, und I don’t know vot she mean.” 

“ Why, that was what she called me yesterday,” said 
Paul. “ And I told her I was no angel. Then she 
looked so wild and frightened, and said, ‘Yes, you are, 
for the Christ told me so.’ Then I thought it must be 
that she had a fever, and it made her talk queer, 
because you know people with fever have their brain 
burning and don’t know what they say.” 

“ So, so, I t’ink that vos der trubles. It vos yer den 
she mean all der time. Veil, gome in und see her, den,” 
and Mrs. Stein led the way while Paul followed her to 
Nell’s bedside in the adjoining room. Mrs. Stein’s 
little children stood around with wide-open eyes, 
eagerly watching him and listening to all that was 
said. 

As soon as Nell saw Paul she trembled violently, 
just as she had the day before, and said feebly, “ Angel 
child,” as she stretched out her wasted hands toward 
him. 

Paul took one in each of his, and bending over 
her said, “ Are you better to-day, Nell?” 

“ Yes, I ’m better, and you ’ve brought me bread, 
have n’t you? ” 

He was about to say no, he had not brought her 
bread, but had given Mrs. Stein money to buy what she 
needed. He was beginning, however, to understand 
her condition, and after the experience of the day 
before, to know it was best not to contradict her. Be- 
sides, it was the same as bread anyway, so he simply 


246 The Story of a Little Poet 

said, “ Yes, I have brought you bread, and you will 
have some every day.” 

“ I knew you would,” she said, and then closed her 
eyes as if very weary. Then he said, “ Good-by, Nell, 
I must go now, for I have a train to make to be in time 
for school.” 

She opened her eyes and smiled, but said nothing, as 
Paul released her hands and slipped quietly out of the 
room. 

“ Good-by, Mrs. Stein,” he said at the door. “ I 
will come as often as I can to see Nell, and will bring 
you the money every week.” 

Mrs. Stein wiped a tear from her eye as she said, 
“ Goot-py, I danks yer mit all mine heart; Nell vas 
right, pecause yer vas von peautiful angel chile, vat vas 
goot und kind.” Paul laughed to himself as he ran 
down the stairs and up the street, to think of Mrs. 
Stein comparing him to an angel. “ She is so glad to 
get a little money to help them along, she don’t know 
what to say,” was what he thought. 

He saw a number of faces he remembered seeing the 
day before. There were many little children he would 
have liked to stop and talk to, they looked so forlorn 
and neglected, but he had not a moment to spare. He 
only raised his hat now and then as he passed them on 
a run, calling pleasantly, “ Good-morning.” The train 
was just slowing up when he reached the platform, and 
in another moment he was seated in the car and speed- 
ing along to the city, with no other thought but of little 
Nell and his plan for supporting her. Even his teacher 
noticed he was not as attentive as formerly, and stam- 
mered over his recitations ; but his mother had told her 
that he must not be pushed, for he was a nervous child 


The Story of a Little Poet 247 

with a brain too active for his years. He had become 
a great favorite with her, and she was beginning to 
understand him and to appreciate his highly strung, 
nervous temperament, and knew when his lessons were 
not prepared as they ought to be, and he seemed in- 
attentive, that it was simply because he was not well, 
and perhaps his little brain was being overtaxed. 

Before he returned home that day, he stopped at a 
book-store, a place where he had frequently been, but 
not inside, only to look in the window at the pictures 
and dainty painted cards, with pretty verses printed on 
them, but the store has a much greater attraction this 
particular day, for it is connected with his great plan. 
He does not pause long to look in the window, only 
just to see whether the books that he wishes to refer to 
are inside. “ Will you please let me look at some small 
books of poetry ? ” he asked a salesman. 

“ Books of poetry,” repeated the man, gazing down 
on the sweet, interesting face admiringly. 

“ Yes, some small ones, please, like those painted 
ones in the window. How much are they ? ” 

“ We have them at different prices,” replied the man, 
taking some from a case close by, and spreading them 
out on the counter for Paul’s inspection. 

They were all very dainty and sweet, Paul thought, 
with birds and flowers of different colors painted on 
the outside. Some contained only one poem, while in 
others there were several, with illustrations in delicate 
colorings. 

“ How much is this one ? ” asked Paul, holding up 
one he thought the prettiest of all. The outside was 
covered with forget-me-nots, while diagonally through 
them in gilt letters was the word “ Poems.” 


248 The Story of a Little Poet 

“ That one is seventy-five cents,” replied the sales- 
man, becoming more and more interested in the earnest 
face and manners of the child, and not surprised at all 
that books of that style were his choice, for he looks 
like a little poet himself, he thought. 

“ Thank you, sir. I am much obliged to you, but I 
did not want to buy any to-day, only to know what they 
cost.” And with one longing look at the forget-me-not 
book, he left the counter and walked out of the store. 

The salesman thought that perhaps the price was 
higher than he expected, and felt sorry that he was dis- 
appointed, for he seemed very desirous of purchasing a 
book. “ I feel like making that little chap a present of 
the book,” he remarked to another salesman. “Well, 
call him back and I will go halves with you,” he replied. 
“ He looks like a little prince, the dear little fellow. I 
was watching him and his envious look at the book as 
he left the counter.” 

Paul was outside when the door opened and he heard 
a voice calling, “ Come here, little chap. I want to 
speak to you,” and Paul turned and followed the sales- 
man in the store. It was a very large one, and a num- 
ber of salesmen stood around the room and watched 
the presentation of the book he had so admired. 

“ Will you accept this little book as a gift from Mr. 
Vaughan and me ? ” said the salesman, handing it to 
him while he spoke. “ We know you admire it, and 
also that you will enjoy the poems within.” 

Paul was so astonished that he was actually quite be- 
wildered for a moment. Then he said politely, “ Oh, 
thank you, thank you. I cannot tell you how glad I am 
to have it.” And his face grew so bright, and his eyes 
fairly danced with pleasure. “ Good-by,” he said, 


The Story of a Little Poet 249 

reaching out his hand to shake that of the salesman. 
“ I am in a great hurry to-day, but I will stop in again 
to see you.’’ 

“ What kind gentlemen they are ! ” he thought, as he 
hurried along to a stationery store, where he purchased 
plain paper as nearly like that in the book as possible; 
then some that was embossed for the outside. From 
there he went to a trimming store and bought silk cord 
of different shades to match the various colored flowers 
he intended painting on the cover of his books. Pencils 
and paints he had at home, of all kinds, so there re- 
mained nothing more to buy, and off he hurried to meet 
his train. As soon as he was seated, he took paper and 
pencil from his pocket to compose more verses of his 
poem. “ If I only could get that finished,” he thought, 
“ the books will soon be ready, for I have some other 
poems already made which I can put in the book. But 
I must have the first about Nell, so that people will 
know what they are sold for.” 

Every spare moment he could find, he was 
busily engaged with his books. He took the greatest 
pains in cutting the paper evenly, just the size of the 
forget-me-not book, which he had always beside him 
for a copy. He folded them exactly in the centre ; 
then the heavy embossed sheets the same; placed 
them all evenly together, and fastened them with the 
silk cords tied in a bow on the outside. 

When he grew tired composing, he would take up 
the painting. He copied the flowers from cards and 
colored picture books, drawing them first faintly with 
a pencil, then painting them in their natural colors. 
There was one book with pansies, tied with purple 
cord ; one of pink wild roses, tied with pink ; one of 


250 The Story of a Little Poet 

forget-me-nots, tied with blue, as nearly like the copy 
as he was able to make it, and a number of others, all 
with cord to match the flowers. It was no uncommon 
thing to see Paul with his paints, so they never noticed 
what he was doing. Only once Aunt Helen leaned 
over his shoulder as he sat at his desk, and said, 
“ What are you painting lately that seems to take up 
so much of your time? Flowers I see, and pansies. 
They are done very well. Let me have it,” she asked. 

“ Oh, please don’t,” said Paul, holding his arm over 
it to screen it from her eyes. “ It is a secret, Aunt 
Helen, and I can’t let you see it now.” 

“Well, I won’t try to pry into any secrets, Paul,” 
she said, moving off, “ but don’t spend so much time 
over it, whatever it is ; I want to see you out in the air 
more, for it seems to me that you are spending more 
time at this desk than is good for you.” 

To compose the poem and make it express just what 
he desired, was a greater task than he had at first 
imagined it would be. At times he lay awake half 
the night, too excited to sleep ; and if he happened to 
think of a line or two that he thought appropriate, he 
wrote it down on paper in the dark, so that he might 
not forget it by morning. 

He always had the dictionary close beside him when 
he wrote during the day, to be sure of the spelling and 
the proper meaning of words. 

He made almost daily visits to Nell, who was begin- 
ning to improve, though not sufficiently to sit up. 

He had taken the rest of his money at the beginning 
of the second week, which left now only a few days to 
finish the poem and place it in the book with others 
he had already selected from his collection of several 


The Story of a Little Poet 251 

years. He realized more than ever the great responsi- 
bility he had taken upon himself, and was afraid to 
think of the consequences if he could not finish the 
books in time, or could not sell them if he did. 

In four more days he managed to finish six complete 
books, and started off for school with them in his bag, 
wrapped in paper that they might not get soiled. 

He could scarcely realize the delightful moment had 
come at last when his great plan had actually been 
carried out, with the exception of one thing, — the sell- 
ing of the books. 

He knew of no other way to dispose of them than to 
stand on the sidewalks, as he saw the street fakirs do, 
when selling their wares. 

Immediately after school he made his way to one of 
the principal thoroughfares, and stood near a corner 
with his school bag hanging from his shoulder, and the 
precious books in his hand, all in readiness to hold 
them out before the many pedestrians, and ask them 
to buy. But somehow now that the moment had come, 
it did not seem quite so easy. He took from the 
package one of the books he thought the prettiest, 
with forget-me-nots on the outside, somewhat different 
from the one presented to him, being painted in the form 
of a wreath with the word “ Poems ” in gilt letters run- 
ning through the centre, an idea of his own. 

“ Will you please buy a book of poems, — only 
seventy-five cents?” he tried to say several times, but 
his voice was scarcely audible. The words seemed to 
stick in his throat, and a strange trembling took pos- 
session of him, and before he was aware of it his eyes 
filled with tears. “ Why, what is the matter with me ? ” 
he thought, hastily brushing them from his cheeks. “ I 


252 The Story of a Little Poet 

have nothing to cry about, and I am only glad because 
my books are finished.” Then with a great effort to 
overcome these sensations so new to him, he cleared 
his throat, stepped boldly out before a lady, and hold- 
ing up the book, said quite distinctly, though his voice 
trembled, “ Will you please buy a book of poems? ” 

“A what?” the lady asked, stopping, and looking 
down in the little face upturned to hers, wondering 
how it was that such a child, so tastefully dressed and 
evidently refined, should be selling books on the street. 

“ A book of poems,” repeated Paul. “ Please buy 
one, only seventy-five cents, and made just the same 
as the books they sell in Young’s store, only the poetry 
is different.” 

“Are you actually obliged to do this, child?” she 
asked, taking the book and straightening her glasses. 

“Yes, I’m obliged to,” replied Paul, very solemnly, 
waiting eagerly to see if she would purchase one, after 
she had examined it. But she only glanced at the book, 
and did not even open it. The child interested her 
more, and she never dreamed that the book was made by 
him, and the poetry it contained was of his own composi- 
tion. They must have suddenly become reduced in 
circumstances, was the conclusion she finally came to, 
and have sent this child out to sell these books. She 
took out her purse and counted seventy-five cents and 
handed it to Paul, whose delight knew no bounds. He 
raised his hat and said, “ Thank you very much,” and, 
feeling greatly encouraged, he lost some of his timidity, 
and began immediately addressing men, women, and 
children, as they passed, while his first purchaser 
stepped back a few steps to watch him, so interested 
was she in the novel scene. He addressed several 


The Story of a Little Poet 253 

before any one stopped, although they turned and 
looked at him in wonder and admiration. Finally he 
saw an elderly gentleman with a kind, genial face, and, 
stepping quickly before him, he held up a pansy book, 
and, as before, said, “Won’t you please buy a book 
of poems? Only seventy-five cents.” The gentleman 
stopped suddenly, and looked down upon the little 
street fakir in astonishment, raising his eyebrows up in 
a very funny manner before he spoke. Then he said, 
as he took the book, “What did you say child?” for 
although he had heard plainly, like the lady, thought 
there must be some mistake and that it could not be 
possible such a child was selling books on the streets. 

“ I said, Won’t you please buy a book of poems, 
sir?” repeated Paul, quite loudly. 

“ A book of poems, eh ! Whose poems, may I ask, 
little man?” said the gentleman, looking Paul over from 
the top of his sailor hat to his leather leggins. 

“ They are all mine,” replied Paul, rather timidly, fear- 
ing that fact might interfere with making a sale. “But 
please buy one, sir, even if they are not very good ; for 
the money is for a poor sick child, and the first poem 
will tell something about her.” 

“ All your poems, eh ! Do you mean you composed 
all these verses ? ” he asked in surprise, glancing through 
the book. 

“Yes, I composed every verse,” replied Paul. 

A number of persons were attracted by this conversa- 
tion, and in a few minutes they were the centre of a cir- 
cle two rows deep. Paul’s first purchaser stepped up 
quite close when this conversation began, and she was 
more interested than ever when she heard the poems 
were composed by himself. 


254 The Story of a Little Poet 

“ Why, certainly I will buy one, if you are the poet,” 
said the gentleman, smiling. “ But tell me what your 
name is, little fellow, and how you come to be selling 
books on the street.” 

“ My name is Paul Arlington, and I sell them for a 
poor little girl who has not a cent in the world to buy 
clothes or food.” 

“Won’t you all please buy?” he asked, passing around 
all that were left into the hands outstretched in the 
crowd. 

“ I am sure you will buy him out,” said the gentleman, 
addressing the people. " He composed the poems in- 
side, and I am sure they will be very interesting.” 

Paul blushed at this, and felt he was receiving praise 
he did not deserve, so he said quickly, “ I am afraid 
you will not think the poems very good, but the first 
tells about the poor beggar child, and it is all true, and 
perhaps when you read it you will get some of your 
friends to buy. I will be here again as soon as I have 
more made.” 

“ I do not believe his parents know of this,” remarked 
the elderly gentleman to the lady who bought first, while 
in the mean time Paul was collecting the money for the 
remainder of his books. 

“ I am sure they do not,” said the lady, “ and it 
must be all true, and how pathetic to think of him help- 
ing along a beggar child in so sweet and novel a manner.” 

“ Oh, thank you ! thank you ! ” Paul was saying, as he 
received the money, almost overcome with joy to find 
such a ready sale for his books, his only regret being that 
he did not have more, for many would have been 
purchased. 

“ If Nell was here she would thank you all too ; but as 


The Story of a Little Poet 255 

she is ill in bed, I will thank you for her.” And with 
these words he raised his hat and made his way through 
the crowd, running up the street at a great rate. The 
elderly gentleman and also the lady, who had become 
especially interested, intended to ask him more questions 
and learn more about him ; but he was off before they had 
another opportunity, and they could only stand with the 
others and watch the little figure’s flying legs until he 
was lost to sight 

Paul’s heart continued to palpitate for some time after 
the train had started. It seemed impossible to quiet its 
rapid pulsations, especially when he thought of the large 
sum of money lying snugly in his pocket, and every book 
sold, with the prospect of having a ready sale for as 
many more as he could make. All these pleasing 
thoughts had the same effect on him now as a hard 
run would have, making his heart thump in a very 
quick and nervous manner, accompanied by those 
strange trembling sensations he could not understand. 
It was all because he was exhausted both in body and 
mind, and his delicate nerves were feeling the effects of 
the strain. He leaned back wearily in the seat, and 
gazed out of the window, blinking his eyes very fast, as 
one thought after another chased through his tired brain. 
Finally a tear came, then another, as they had shortly 
before, and which he hastily brushed away, wondering 
what made them come when he was so glad. Finally 
he came to the conclusion that it must be because he 
was very tired, for he was conscious for the first time of 
a great weariness, and it was an effort for him to get 
up when the train stopped at Avondale. 


PAUL’S BOOK OF POEMS 


LITTLE NELL 

Have you heard the tale of little Nell? 

How she came to church at the toll of 
the bell ? 

But stood outside in the drifted snow, 

For inside she thought no beggars can 
go. 

But she wanted to hear the singing that 
day 

And also to the Christ to pray, 

That he would take her out of the 
cold, 

And tenderly lift her up in his fold. 

She stood ’neath a window in a deep 
alcove 

That represented Jesus, telling his love 

To dear little children who stood by his 
knee, 

And she knew from all care and want 
they were free. 

So she longed that day to be with them 
there, 

Those little children so bright and fair, 

So that she too, like them, could be 
near 

Those loving arms and know no fear. 

For she knew not where in the world 
to find 

One who would be to her good and 
kind. 

Her mother was dead, and her father, 
they said, 

Had left her alone without money for 
bread. 


So she called to the Christ on the win- 
dow-pane, 

“ Oh, come, take away this starving 
pain, 

And lift me up, so that I can be 

With the little children around your 
knee.” 

Things were not real to the starving 
child, 

And her eyes looked strangely fierce 
and wild ; 

For fever burned in her throbbing head, 

And all was queer that the sick child 
said. 

But, hark ! sweet strains of music reach 
her ear, 

And she stops in her prayer that she 
might hear. 

With stiffened fingers she clings to the 
sill, 

While her eyes with hot tears slowly fill. 

“ Oh, take me now ! ” to the Christ she 
cries, 

“ For the angels are singing in the 
skies.” 

But it seemed her calling was all in vain, 

For the Christ never moved on the 
window-pane. 

The last hymn was sung, and one by one 

Out from the church the worshippers 
come. 

And the sick child now gives up in de- 
spair 

Of the Christ on the window hearing 
her prayers. 


The Story of a Little Poet 257 


When suddenly it seemed to her fevered 
brain 

That at last he was calling out of the 
pane. 

“Go call my angel-child,” he said, 

“ For I have sent him to give you 
bread.” 

His angel-child, ah, yes, she knew, 

It must be the one with eyes of blue, 
She had seen that day, and often before 
Pass with the worshippers in the church 
door. 

So quickly she peeped around the wall 
Clinging to the stones that she might 
not fall, 

Looking eagerly with eyes so wild 
To catch the first glimpse of her angel- 
child. 

Ah, there he is with his eyes of blue. 
And she calls as the Christ had told 
her to. 

He turns, he hears her pitiful cry, 

And followed her back of the wall 
close by. 

“ Oh, angel-child, will you give me 
bread ? ” 

She cried, as back in the snow she tread, 
Quickly gliding behind the wall 
When she saw he was coming at her 
call. 

“I’m not an angel-child,” he said, 
While in the deep snow he after her 
tread. 

“ Oh, yes, you are,” she quickly replied. 
“For the Christ said so, and it can’t 
be denied.” 

“ See 1 see the Christ, angel-child,” she 
cried, 

Leaning up very close to his side, 

And pointing with cramped little fingers 
above 

At the Christ to the children telling 
his love. 


“ Oh, speak, angel-child, and tell me 
why 

He would not listen to my cry, 

And why he left poor Nell below 
And yet took mother long ago. 

“ But I ’ll send my angel-child,” he said, 
“ And he will give you bread instead.” 
“ Of course he will,” the child replied, 
“ If you will just in me confide.” 

Then gently he led poor little Nell 
In the warm church, where the sun- 
beams fell 

On the bright red carpet, that shed a 
glow 

On the two little children, as they go. 

Slowly walking up the aisle, 

When Nell’s face suddenly lights with 
a smile, 

For she sees the Christ on the window- 
pane 

Looking down upon her again. 

She stopped an instant filled with 
awe, 

For she never saw him so plainly be- 
fore, 

Clear and distinct he stands in the 
light 

Of the bright sunshine a thrilling sight. 

She presses her hands to her throbbing 
brow 

And wonders if she is dreaming now. 
Whether it all is as real as it seems, 

For surely he was coming through the 
bright sunbeams. 

Down from the window ’mid the gold 
and red, 

That shimmered and gleamed about his 
head, 

And on the long white graceful gown 
That hung in soft folds to the ground. 


1 7 


258 The Story of 

On, on, she gazed, and never knew 
She had been gently placed in a pew, 
And that the angel-child had said, 

“ I ’ll come back soon and bring you 
bread.” 

Leaving her alone with the Christ above, 
Who she thought looked down with eyes 
of love, 

And was moving slowly through the 
light 

In a golden pathway clear and bright. 

Her weary eyes never strayed away 
From the figure in the golden rays, 

As though afraid he would take his 
flight 

If for an instant he was lost to sight. 

But he comes no nearer, though the 
time rolls by ; 

Then she suddenly sobs and heaves a 
sigh. 

Her head falls back on the cushioned 
pew, 

And she wonders again if it is all true. 

That he will not come, though it looked 
so plain 

That he walked straight from the win- 
dow-pane. 

And to her wandering mind even yet it 
seemed 

He still moved toward her, through the 
golden beams. 

Yet strange, that though so long he 
walked, 

He came no nearer, and never talked 
As he seemed to when she stood by 
the wall 

And told her his angel-child to call. 

She turned with a start, and wondered 
where 

The angel was, who brought her there. 
Was that too only a dream, after all ? 
And had he really not come at her call ? 


a Little Poet 

O’er the vacant pews she looked around, 

But sees not a soul, and hears not a 
sound. 

She presses her hand to her temples 
again, 

And tried to think through her clouded 
brain. 

F or it all seemed so real, yet how could 
it be 

If the child who was there, now, she 
could not see. 

For surely he had just a moment before 

Led her out of the snow and in the 
church door. 

And the Christ who was coming to 
take her away 

In his outstretched arms, to forever 
stay, 

Draws not a step nearer, though he 
moved in the pane. 

But it all was owing to her clouded 
brain 

That all things quivered before her 
sight, 

The radiant window in the bright sun- 
light, 

And the painted flowers e’en on the 
wall 

Would rise far above her, then down 
again fall. 

And the brass chandeliers swayed to 
and fro 

In glittering waves now high now low, 

Until nearly blind with the dazzling 
light 

Nell closes her eyes to shut out the 
sight. 

But, hark ! was that the creak of a 
door? 

And a step tripping lightly o’er the 
floor ? 

She started, and turned, and lo, ’t was 
he, 

Her angel-child, covered with snow to 
the knee. 


259 


The Story of 

And carrying a basket she quickly spied, 

That filled her with raptures she could 
not hide ; 

For the pangs of hunger made her wild 
at the thought, 

That in it could only be bread he had 
brought. 

Ah, yes, she had told him, now she was 
sure, 

That she was starving, sick, and poor. 

And he had gone, of course, as the 
Christ said he would, 

To get her some bread as quick as he 
could. 

Won’t you please, kind friends, buy a 
book for Nell 

I ’m trying every day to sell. 

To keep away that starving pain 

She may not never know again. 


ROY 

You ’d have some fun if you knew Roy, 
For he ’s just the jolliest boy. 

Laughs and whistles from morn till 
night 

Thinks it great in wars to fight. 

Words he uses, you never heard, 

Can’t write a line about a bird 
Nor trees, and sunsets, things I love, 
Never looks at the clouds above. 

Hears not the music sweet and low 
Of the running brook where we often 
row. 

Yet I know of a kind he ’d hear 
Though a mile away ’t would reach his 
ear. 

’Tis rum-a-tum, rum-a-tum-tum 
The loud deep music of the drum, 

How his eyes sparkle at the sound 
Makes him shout, and jump with a 
bound. 


a Little Poet 

Says a soldier he ’d like to be 

And fight on both the land and sea, 

Seems somehow we don’t think alike 

When we talk about wars and fights. 

But he ’s so jolly and so gay 

Could n’t bother ’bout what I say ; 

Laughs and whistles from morn till 
night 

And all I know is — He ’s all right. 

THE LILIES 

Oh, dainty little blossoms wonderfully 
made, 

Sweet lily of the valley growing in the 
shade, 

How delicate thy perfume, none other 
can compare 

With a fragrance so delicious, so won- 
derful and rare. 

Folded in a leafy cradle how lovingly 
they lay, 

Shielded in the soft green folds from 
the sun’s hot rays. 

The spring with all its flowers never 
seems to me complete 

Till I see the little lilies from their soft 
green cradles peep. 


MY SISTER GRACE 

There ’s a flower grows in our garden 
here, 

That blooms every day throughout the 
whole year, 

No other in the world can with it com- 
pare, 

So dainty, so graceful, so wondrously 
fair. 

In the fall when others droop and fade, 

This one you will find just as gayly 
arrayed 


260 


The Story of 

As when the sparkling little drops of 
dew 

Made the summer flowers look fresh 
and new. 

Under warmer skies you will oft see it 
white, 

Tinted with colors that change over 
night. 

One day the soft petals will be streaked 
with pale blue, 

Then another you will see it a pinkish 
hue. 

But under the winter’s cold leaden 
skies, 

When through leafless trees the wind 
moans and sighs, 

And our hearts long for something 
bright and gay 

To remind us of summer days long 
passed away, 

’T is then it will wear a warm crimson 
shade, 

Edged with soft down just newly made, 

So to shed all about it a glow so 
bright 

That the winter days will be to us as 
bright. 

As those in June, when the roses grew, 

And the earth was green, and the sky 
was blue. 

When the birds sang merrily all day 
long 

In their leafy trees, their joyous songs. 

But it matters not how the cold wind 
blows, 

Or how deep on the ground lies the 
midwinter snows. 

More radiant than ever, it springs with 
a bound 

From behind the great snowdrifts, 
piled high on the ground. 


a Little Poet 

And we hear no more the wind’s mourn- 
ful sound, 

Or mind in the least the snow-covered 
ground, 

For we think summer ’s here to see the 
laughing face 

Of this rare little flower, — My sister 
Grace. 


THE FLOWERS 

The flowers, I love them every one, 

All plants and trees that ever were 
known. 

The hedges that grow by the roadside 
fence, 

The trailing vines with the sweetest of 
scents. 

I love the cool grass beneath my feet. 

The plainest flower is to me so sweet. 

The graceful fern on its slender stem 

Is to my eyes a perfect gem. 

E’en the daisies and buttercups’ praises 
I sing, 

For many a new thought they did 
bring, 

As I examined closely their petals 
small, 

Found them wonderfully made as flow- 
ers all. 

Though the garden flowers are so dear 
to me, 

Yet how often 1 love to wander 

Through woods and dells for a wild 
flower free, 

Or a field of sweet-smelling clover. 


AN AUGUST TWILIGHT 

The sun’s last rays are slowly sinking 
In the western sky. 

One by one the stars are peeping 
From their realms on high. 


26 i 


The Story of a Little Poet 


The leafy boughs are softly sighing, 

As to and fro they sway, 

The cattle in the fields are lying, 
Seeking rest with the dying day. 

Perched on fence and low -spread 
bough 

The barn-yard fowl are snugly tucked, 
With heads all hidden in feathers deep, 
Are ready for their nightly sleep. 

The parent-bird has sung good-night 
And rests with nestlings small. 

The house-dog dozes in the mellow 
light, 

While over all the night shades fall. 


BRIDGET’S WEDDING 
DAY 

Ring, ye bells, pour forth your lay, 

For this is Bridget’s wedding day. 

Beat, ye drum, and toot, ye horn, 

For this is not a day to mourn. 

Dance, ye people, and laugh with glee, 
And be as happy as the bumble-bee. 

If it ’s only for the night, be bright, 

F or we don’t have weddings every night. 

May she always happy be, 

And with Mike never disagree. 

I hope she will ne’er again 
Wish she was Bridget Flanagan. 


CHAPTER XVII 


O NE morning, while Paul was on his way to the 
station, he passed Dr. Barlow in his carriage ; he 
was a neighboring physician. He always bowed to him 
whenever he saw him, which was quite frequently, but 
so far he never had had an opportunity to talk with 
him. He and his wife had called at the house one 
evening since they came to Avondale, but Paul had 
retired, so missed meeting him. He had often wished 
for an opportunity to talk with him, for his face always 
reminded him of Dr. Andrews. They had exchanged 
the usual greeting on this particular day, when like a 
flash the thought dawned upon him to consult him 
about Nell. His first impulse was to call after him, but 
the horse was on a brisk trot, and the distance between 
them too great for him to be heard. Then he decided 
he would call at his office on his return from school. 

He knew where he resided, for he passed his house 
every time he went to Mill Hollow. His name could 
be seen plainly on one of the posts of the porch from 
the road. He regretted that he had not thought of this 
before, for all sick people ought to have a physician. 
They always had one at Glen wood Home for the poor 
children, and he wondered how he could have neglected 
anything so important. 

On his return that day he went immediately to Dr. 
Barlow’s house. He pulled the bell with several quick 


The Story of a Little Poet 263 

jerks, which was soon answered by a maid, who told 
him the doctor was not in, but had he any message to 
leave ? 

Paul hesitated a moment, busily thinking what would 
be best to do. 

“ I will send him to the house if you say so,” she 
continued. 

“ I think I would rather see him myself,” said Paul ; 
“ and if you do not think he will be very long, I will 
come in and wait.” 

“ Sometimes he steps in for a moment to see if any 
messages have been left, so you might come in for a 
while, if you don’t mind waiting,” she said, which invi- 
tation Paul readily accepted. 

The sliding doors were open wide between the office 
and the waiting-room, and Paul could see the bright 
fire in the grate and the armchair close by it. He 
wondered if the doctor would care if he went in and 
took possession of it for a little while, for he felt cold 
and tired, and longed to snuggle down in the soft folds 
of the easy-chair which looked so inviting by the bright 
glowing coals. 

He took off his overcoat and leggins, and laying them 
with his hat on a chair, walked in and sat down, with 
his legs crossed and his head thrown back. He thought 
of poor Nell, and wondered if Dr. Barlow could cure 
her, and if his bill would be a very large one. “ When 
he finds out how poor she is, I am sure he will not 
charge much,” he thought, “ and I can pay it by selling 
books. I will make them all the time, and I will soon 
have lots of money for everything. If I wrote to Dr. 
Andrews about her, perhaps he would send some 
money for her, but I guess I had better not, for Aunt 


264 The Story of a Little Poet 

Helen might not like me to do that.” Had a fairy sud- 
denly touched the coals in the grate with her magic 
wand? For they are undergoing a most wonderful 
change, as he gazed with half-closed eyes at the little 
leaping flames. They were turning into trees, and, yes, 
the very trees that grew at Beechwood too. He could 
not forget them, and then he saw the creek and, what is 
more surprising, he was walking close beside it, and it 
was all a mistake that he had ever left his beautiful 
home. Why, it must have been a dream. He heard a 
familiar voice, and turning, he saw Dr. Andrews coming 
across the little bridge with outstretched arms, and with 
a bound he was folded to his heart. 

“ How glad I am to have you back, my boy !” he said, 
and Paul felt so happy but for one thing ; he had left a 
little beggar girl somewhere starving, with no one to 
look after her ; and so he dreamed all alone in the 
doctor’s easy-chair. 

The sun was fast going down, and only a faint glim- 
mer came through the mullioned windows. The maid 
entered to make a light, and seeing the sleeping child, 
turned it down dimly and passed out quietly, leaving 
him undisturbed. 

It was after five when the doctor stopped to see if 
any messages had been left. The maid met him in the 
hall, and said, “ There ’s a little boy waiting for you, 
sir, and he has fallen asleep in your chair.” He walked 
back to the other end of the hall and opened a door 
that led directly into his private office. He stood still 
for a moment, with his hand on the door-knob, when he 
saw the beautiful picture before him. Then carefully he 
closed the door and stepped lightly over the floor, until 
he stood directly before the little sleeper. The light 


The Story of a Little Poet 265 

from the grate shone full on his face and the golden hair 
that encircled it. The doctor thought he had never 
seen such clear-cut features, white skin, and long droop- 
ing lashes. 

“ It is a shame to awaken him,” he thought ; “ he 
must have been very tired to sleep so heavily, but there 
may be some one very ill at home waiting for me.” 
So thinking, he rattled the coals in a scuttle that stood 
near the grate, then stooped over the chair just in time 
to see a pair of blue-gray eyes meet his gaze. The 
next instant two arms were thrown around his neck, 
and a childish voice said, “ Oh, Dr. Andrews, I am so 
glad to see you again.” But immediately Paul realized 
his mistake and knew he had been asleep and dreaming, 
and it was Dr. Barlow bending over him, whom he had 
come to see. Quickly he unwound his arms, rubbed 
his eyes, and jumped from the chair, saying, “ Oh, 
please excuse me. I thought you were Dr. Andrews 
when I first opened my eyes, because you look so much 
like him, and I was dreaming about him.” Then Paul 
gave a little nervous laugh. 

“ I am very sorry to be forced to disturb you,” said 
Dr. Barlow, pleasantly, seating himself on the chair and 
drawing Paul down on his knee. “ But I thought per- 
haps some one might be ill at the house and anxious to 
see me.” 

“ No one is ill at our house, but I came to see you 
about a poor little girl who lives down in Mill Hollow,” 
said Paul, speaking very earnestly. “ I found her one 
Sunday by the church, nearly frozen, and starving. It 
was very sad to see her, because she was so sick, and a 
fever burned in her head that made her talk queer, and 
she thought the Christ on the church window was alive 


266 


The Story of a Little Poet 

and she called me ‘ Angel child/ ” (And again he gave 
that little nervous laugh.) “ But she did not know what 
she was saying, and it was all on account of the fever.” 
Then Paul related the whole story of poor little Nell, 
while the doctor quietly listened. 

He noted the unusual sympathy that was felt by the 
little speaker for the friendless child he was telling 
about. He also observed that his nerves were greatly 
unstrung, owing to this very fact, and judged that he 
must have been under a great strain of some kind, 
which, in all probability, was connected with the beg- 
gar child. 

By the time the tale was finished, the doctor was better 
acquainted with Paul, and understood him more fully 
than many who had known him all his life. 

“ Why, certainly I will go down to see the child,” he 
said, drawing the tired little head against his breast as 
he spoke, and smoothing tenderly his broad white brow. 
“ I will do whatever I can for her, but I am afraid that 
you are worrying yourself sick about this unfortunate 
child.” 

“ No, indeed,” spoke up Paul, quickly, “ I am not at 
all sick, I only feel tired sometimes ; and sometimes,” he 
said, hesitatingly, “ I cry when I don’t know it.” 

“ Ah, yes, I understand all about it,” said the doctor, 
shaking his head ; “ your little brain and nerves are being 
overtaxed, and you must not think so much about this 
little beggar; it is not good for you. I will go to see 
her to-morrow ; and if you will stop about this time, I 
will tell you what I think of her. 

“ Who is this Dr. Andrews you took me for ? ” 

“ Don’t you know Dr. Andrews?” asked Paul, in sur- 
prise, “ why, I thought every one knew who he was ; he 


The Story of a Little Poet 267 

is the minister who lives right next door to my old 
home, Beechwood, and works for the poor. I have 
known him ever since I was a baby, and he is my great- 
est friend. I did not want to leave him and Beechwood, 
but you see it could n’t be helped, because Beechwood 
had to be sold on account of the panic.” 

“I must go now,” he said, suddenly jumping up; “it 
must be very late, and Aunt Helen will wonder where 
I am.” 

“ I am going past your house,” said the doctor, “ so 
will take you in my carriage.” 

When Paul stepped out in front of their gate, he 
turned to the doctor, and said, “ If Nell says anything 
about ‘ angel child,’ don’t tell her there is n’t any here, 
because that makes her nervous. You see, she takes me 
for an angel, and thinks the Christ on the window sent 
me to take care of her, and it seems to make her so 
happy, so I let her think so. Don’t you think that is 
best when any one has fever?” 

“ Certainly it would not do to contradict one in such 
a condition,” said Dr. Barlow, smiling at Paul’s earnest- 
ness. “ It is surely a comforting illusion, and it would 
not be wise to try to dispel it, if she is in the weak state 
I imagine from your description.” 

Hulda stood in the doorway when Paul arrived, and 
ran to meet him, covering him with hugs and kisses. 

“ Oh, Master Paul, you have given us an awful fright 
staying away so late, and your aunt is nearly wild with 
grief. She has gone off in search of you, and by this 
time I guess she is in the city at the police station. 
Where have you been? — tell me,” she asked, as Paul was 
too scared to speak when he heard of all the trouble he 
had so unconsciously caused. 


268 


The Story of a Little Poet 

“ I only stopped at Dr. Barlow’s to send him to a sick 
child, and he was n’t in, so I waited for him.” 

“ What sick child do you know, Master Paul, that you 
have to bother sending a doctor to them? ” asked Hulda, 
taking off his coat and leggins, for she noticed how tired 
he looked, as he sat down in the hall, making no attempt 
to take them off himself. 

“ There was nobody else to go for him, so I had to,” 
said Paul, his eyes filling with tears. “ Oh, dear, dear ! 
I am sorry I did not come first and tell Aunt Helen. 
She will not find me in the city, and what will she do? 
Let me put my coat on again, Hulda, and go after her ! 
Maybe I can find her.” 

“ No, indeed, Master Paul, don’t think of it ! You are 
safe now, and I ’m going to keep you right under my 
eye. You might miss her, anyhow, and it would only 
be a fool’s errand. There is nothing to do, now, but 
wait her return. Poor little dear, you look so tired, and, 
I am afraid, not feeling well.” 

“ I hope it is n’t for the beggar child you found by the 
church that Sunday, is it?” she asked. 

“Yes, it is, and she may be dying, for a lady told me 
she would not live through the winter.” 

It did not then occur to Hulda that he had been to 
Mill Hollow, but had met some one on the street who 
knew something about the beggar child, and had given 
him the news, and told him to send the doctor to see 
her. 

Hulda then went out into the kitchen to finish prepa- 
rations for their evening meal, and Paul stood at the 
window, peering out in the darkness for a glimpse of his 
Aunt Helen. Roy slipped up close to him, and said, 
“ Aunt Helen is awful mad, Perseffer. She was hoppin’ 


The Story of a Little Poet 269 

and hoppin’ about here, and scolding all the time. She 
said she would ask at the station first if any one saw 
you, and if they did n’t, I think she was going to the 
brewery [bureau] of police, and send them all out after 
you. She thought maybe you had found another organ- 
grinder, and had gone home with him.” 

Baby Grace stepped up close to the other side of him, 
and slipped her little hand in his, knowing he needed 
sympathy, and felt very angry with Roy that he should 
say such awful things. 

“ My bruver Paul is dood now, and he wood n’t 
doe away wiv anoder ordin-drinder,” she said, shaking 
her head, and her eyes flashing, as she looked at 
Roy. 

“ No, I would n’t have done that,” said Paul, placing 
his arm around her, “ but I am sorry I did not come 
home first, and tell Aunt Helen. Oh, dear me ! how 
angry she will be, and I guess it was my fault, too.” 

His eyes filled with tears again, and Grace leaned up 
very close to him, and said, “ Is you dawn to cry, Bruver 
Paul?” 

“ Oh, no, I am not going to cry,” he replied, biting his 
lip, and making desperate efforts to force back the tears. 
“ You see, Robin, I am only very sorry that I worried 
Aunt Helen so much.” 

“ Jes betause you went for a dotter for a sick ’ittle 
dirl? ” 

“ No, not only for that, but because I did not let her 
know I had returned from school. I just wish I could 
go after her.” 

“ Baby Drace don’t want you to do out in er dark 
night; she will tome soon, and ’en she will find Bruver 
Paul home adain, and not out at all, won’t she?” and 


2jo The Story of a Little Poet 

Grace smiled, and looked up into his face to see if there 
was any response to her comforting words. 

“ Is er ’ittle dirl dawn to die who wants a dotter? ” 

“ I am afraid she is, but maybe he can cure her, and 
that is why I wanted to send him to see her.” 

“ And will she go to heaven with baby Martin, if she 
dies? ” 

“ Yes, of course she will.” 

“ What do all er dead peoples do to heaven for when 
’ey dies, Bruver Paul? Is it the only place they can 
find? Is it the Heaven World?” 

“Yes, it is the beautiful Heaven World, where no- 
body has any pain or troubles,” said Paul. 

“An’ if er ’ittle dirl dies, will ’ey have a petty white 
shash tied on ’er door-bell, like ’ey had for baby 
Martin? ” 

At that instant Paul gave a leap, and clapping his 
hands for very joy, ran to the door, opened it, and ran 
down the path toward his aunt and threw his arms 
about her as she entered the gate. 

“ Oh, do not be cross with me, Aunt Helen, please 
don’t,” he implored ; “ I know it was wrong to stay away 
so late, but I fell asleep in the doctor’s chair, and then 
when he came, I had to talk to him about a sick child.” 

“You need not get so excited, Paul,” said Aunt 
Helen. “ Just let me in and get my wraps off first, and 
then I will listen to the whole story. I am completely 
exhausted and almost sick with the fright you have 
given me.” 

“ Oh, I am so glad to see you back again,” said Hulda, 
coming in from the kitchen, to help her off with 
wraps and overshoes ; “ you did not have time to get 
all the way to the city, did you ? ” 


The Story of a Little Poet 271 

“No, very fortunately, after inquiring of a dozen per- 
sons, I finally came across a gentleman at the station, 
who said he saw a boy with light curls go into Dr. Bar- 
low’s house, and I made immediately for that place, and 
learned from the maid that Paul had been there a long 
time, waiting for the doctor, then went away with him 
in his carriage. 

“ I thanked her, and hurried back, and here I am, just 
about worn out. 

“ Now what have you to say for yourself, Paul ? ” she 
said quite sternly. 

Paul shivered from head to foot; his nerves were 
completely unstrung, and he thought it was now surely 
all up with him doing anything more for Nell, which to 
him was a calamity almost too overpowering to bear. 

It was enough to melt a heart of stone to watch him 
as he stood trembling, his eyes filled with unshed tears, 
trying to think of something to say to defend himself 
and Nell. 

Aunt Helen had a strong desire to fold him in her 
arms and speak more kindly to him, but she restrained 
the impulse, for, after all, that would only be encourag- 
ing him in a wrong act, she thought, and for the child’s 
good, “ I must be stern, and let him understand that I 
thoroughly disapprove of these things,” for she felt sure 
that it must be all connected with the poor little child 
he found by the church. 

He was just about to speak, when Hulda said, “ A 
woman told him that the little beggar girl would n’t live 
through the winter, and must have a doctor, so I suppose 
he went off straight for Dr. Barlow. He did not think 
he would be so long, Miss Helen, but he fell asleep in 
the doctor’s chair.” 


272 The Story of a Little Poet 

“Well, no wonder you do not want to speak,” said 
Aunt Helen, though in a milder tone, “ when it is about 
those wretched beggars again. I thought as much ; and 
all I have to say is, I might as well give up trying to do 
anything with you in that respect ; I am afraid it is a 
hopeless task.” 

Baby Grace was actually crying in sympathy for Paul, 
as she listened to the dreadful scolding he was getting. 
She stepped up close to her aunt and said quite low, — 

“ Buter ’ittle dirl is dawn to heaven soon, ’tause she is 
sick, and had no dotter to div her melisen.” 

Even jolly Roy had been quite subdued by the scene, 
and felt very sorry for Paul, who so far had said noth- 
ing, but stood trembling and looking so sad, the very 
picture of despair. 

It seemed to Roy somehow there was a big fuss 
being made about a very small matter; presently he 
said, — 

“ Oh, well, let him be a minute, Aunt Helen. Mother 
never scolded him, and I guess you have about a mil- 
lion times since she went away ! ” 

This remark made Aunt Helen feel very badly indeed. 
The idea of merry Roy, even, looking upon her, perhaps, 
as a common scold, when she thought they were the 
very best of friends ; and she was only trying, after all, 
to do her duty by them. 

She sat for a moment with her face in her hands and 
made no reply to Roy’s words. 

Suddenly, in the midst of the stillness, Paul rushed 
over to her chair and threw his arms about her neck 
and said, — 

“ Oh, I am so sorry I worry you all the time, Aunt 
Helen, dear. I don’t want to do it. I am sad all the 


The Story of a Little Poet 273 

time when I think of it; but you know Mother loves 
the poor, and is always helping them, and I must be 
like her; I cannot help it. Is it wrong to do what 
mothers think right and aunts think wrong?” 

Aunt Helen could resist no longer; she drew Paul 
down on her lap and kissed him and wiped the tears 
from his lashes as she said, — 

“ Don’t you know, Paul, it is only for your own good 
that I try to keep you from so much unnecessary trouble 
that you give yourself when you see a beggar? You 
think too much about them, that is all, whenever you 
come in contact with any forlorn creature. It affects 
your health, too, to be so intensely sympathetic.” 

“ But it would affect me more if I saw them and 
could n’t do anything for them,” continued Paul. 

“ Well, try, Paul dear, not to think too much about 
them, will you? because I know it can have no good 
effect on a nature like yours to be forever following 
them up, and listening to their tales of woe.” 

“ I will promise to try not to think so much about 
them that it will make me sick,” said Paul, earnestly; 
“ but poor little Nell, I know you would be sorry for her 
if you saw her. She is very sick and cannot live.” 

“Well, come now,” said Aunt Helen, “don’t let us 
talk any more about her : we must go out to supper ; 
Hulda is tired of waiting.” 

Paul was very much pleased the next morning to 
find Nell propped up in the cot, looking brighter and 
more natural than he had yet seen her. 

Mrs. Stein had also tried to make some improvements 
in the room. She had put up white muslin curtains at 
the windows, and bought a cheap strip of carpet that 
lay by the side of the bed. 

18 


274 The Story of a Little Poet 

She had been fortunate enough to get the wash of two 
families in Avondale, the past two weeks ; so that her 
financial condition was much improved, making her in- 
come, with the money Paul brought, ranging from eight 
to ten dollars a week. 

“ My little friendt, I was schoost dinking if I could 
save somedings for a new mattress for de chile, I t’ink 
she be more comfable,” she said to Paul, on this par- 
ticular morning. 

“ Is it very hard? ” asked Paul. 

“Yah, it vos, und der straw vos all in lumps, und I 
can’t do noddings mit it.” 

“ Straw ! ” exclaimed Paul, in amazement. “ Is she ly- 
ing on a mattress made of straw? I never heard of one 
before.” 

“ My ! my ! mein leetle friendt ! der poor shleeps on 
nodding else.” 

“ Well, how much would a good comfortable one 
cost, do you think?” 

“Veil, for dot bed I tink a goot von be bout drei 
dollar.” 

“ How much is drei dollar? ” 

“Drei, drei tollar, vos ein, zwei, drei,” said Mrs. 
Stein, counting three fingers off and holding them up. 

“ Oh, I see, three dollars. Well, I will try to get one, 
Mrs. Stein, so you need n’t try to save anything for it. 
I did not know her bed was so hard, and it must be 
dreadful to be very sick and not have a comfortable 
one.” And so that very day, instead of taking the little 
time he had to sell books, he hunted up a furniture store. 

“ Have you any nice comfortable mattresses for a sick 
child?” he asked of the man who stepped forward to 
wait on him as he entered the store. 


The Story of a Little Poet 275 

He smiled at Paul’s question, and wondered who 
would send so young a child to purchase a mattress. 

“ Yes, we have some very comfortable ones, my little 
man, any size you want,” he said kindly. 

“ Well ! what would one cost to fit a cot? ” 

“ Well, a comfortable mattress to fit a cot, made with 
the best materials, would be about six dollars.” 

“ Six dollars,” gasped Paul. It almost took his breath, 
for he wondered how he could ever make that amount 
over the regular expenses, and the doctor’s bill would 
come later on. It was impossible; he surely could not 
manage it. The price so staggered him for a time that 
he could not speak. Finally he said, the tears coming 
to his eyes, and in a faltering voice, “ Thank you, sir, 
but I can’t afford that,” and was turning to leave, when 
Mr. Harvey (the owner of the store) said, “ Come back, 
my little man, and let me see if I can get one up cheaper 
for you that would be comfortable as well.” 

“Oh, could you?” said Paul, clasping his hands and 
swallowing a lump in his throat as he turned back on 
hearing this kind offer. 

“Why, certainly I could,” he replied, becoming very 
much interested and determined if possible to find out 
who he was, and why he should be coming alone to 
purchase a mattress for a cot. 

“ If you will be kind enough to tell me who this mat- 
tress is for, perhaps I can make the price satisfactory 
to you.” 

“ Oh, could you, sir? ” asked Paul, in great earnestness, 
with the tears that he seemed hardly aware of, glistening 
still on his long lashes, so absorbed was he to know 
the outcome of this important bargain. 

" Sit down, child,” he said, handing him a chair. 


2j6 The Story of a Little Poet 

“ You look very tired.” Paul did as requested, then 
said: “It is all for Nell, sir, a poor sick child I found 
cold and starving by the church. She had no one to 
love her, no one to take care of her, and she came to 
the church to die there. A poor German woman tried 
to take care of her, but she had no work, and her hus- 
band is dead. She could hardly feed her own children, 
and Nell could n’t stay with her, and one day when she 
had fever, she walked to the church in the snow, and 
talked to the Christ on the window-pane. She thought 
He was alive. Then when she saw me, she called me 
‘ angel child.’ You see, she did n’t know what she was 
saying, so I took her back to the German woman, who 
has some work now, and I take her money every week 
for Nell. She is getting better, but her bed is so hard, 
— all in lumps of straw that hurt her badly, — and I 
wanted to buy her a new one. But I have n’t enough 
money for a six-dollar one, and another straw one 
would n’t do, you see.” 

Mr. Harvey was deeply touched while he listened to 
Paul relate the story of little Nell, for he seemed to feel 
every word he spoke, and like Dr. Barlow, he saw the 
child’s sympathy was so great for the little beggar girl 
it was making him quite nervous. 

“ Who gives you money to take to the German wo- 
man? ” he asked. 

“ I make the money by selling books of poetry,” re- 
plied Paul. 

“By selling books of poetry? ” said Mr. Harvey, more 
and more astonished. “What sort of books are they?” 

“ Oh, only little books I made, then put in them some 
poetry I made too. And here is one if you would like to 
buy it,” continued Paul, taking one from his bag and 


The Story of a Little Poet 277 

handing it to him. It happened to be one with forget- 
me-nots on, of which he made more than of any other. 

“ Certainly I will buy one,” he said, thinking it was 
the most pathetic incident he had ever heard for so 
young a child to interest himself to such an extent in a 
poor forlorn beggar to make little books of poetry, and 
then sell them for her support. 

“ Do your parents know you are doing this? ” 

“ My parents are in France, and I have not written 
about it to them yet; and my Aunt Helen, who takes 
care of us, does not love the poor, sq I could not tell 
her anything about it.” 

“ Well, I will tell you, my little man, just what I think 
about it all, and I hope you will take the advice of an 
old man. Tell some older person about the child, or 
the minister in your church. He would surely see 
into it, for there are always charitable organizations 
connected with churches, and let them see that this ne- 
glected child is cared for. You have taken too much 
upon your shoulders for one so young. I will do my 
share for her by buying a book, and sending her a new 
mattress, bed, and pillow for a present.” 

“ Oh, sir, do you really mean it?” said Paul, actually 
throwing his arms around Mr. Harvey’s neck, not know- 
ing what to do to express his joy and gratefulness for 
so generous a gift. 

“ You are a born philanthropist,” said Mr. Harvey, 
clasping the dear child to his heart. He was a very af- 
fectionate man, and extremely fond of children, but he 
had never before met one like this little customer. 

“ What does that word mean?” asked Paul. 

“ Philanthropist? ” 

“ Yes.” 


278 The Story of a Little Poet 

“ Why, it is a name applied to one who is always do- 
ing something to help the poor along.” 

“ I like that word,” said Paul, laughing, his heart 
feeling very light again with so pleasant a prospect in 
view, of seeing Nell placed in a brand-new bed, with a 
comfortable mattress and pillow. 

“They call me at home a poet, and sometimes a 
philosopher,” said Paul; “but I like your word best of 
all, because that is what I want to do when I ’m a man, 
— take care of the poor.” 

“ You must try, then, to grow up to be a strong one, 
if that is to be your vocation,” said Mr. Harvey ; “ and 
be sure and take my advice about consulting some one 
older to help you in this matter, or you might wear 
yourself out and not live to be a man.” 

“ Oh, it is no trouble. I love to make the books, and 
they sell right away. Some people are always waiting 
for me. I guess those who buy them tell their friends, 
and then they come to the corner where I always stand. 
But I must hurry now, or I shall miss my train, and 
shall have to take a later one, and that would worry 
Aunt Helen.” 

“ Stop in soon again, and tell me how the little sick 
girl likes her bed, will you?” 

“Yes, I will stop in whenever I have time,” said Paul, 
and shaking hands in his old-fashioned but polite 
manner, he left Mr. Harvey standing at the door look- 
ing after him, and thinking it had been many a day 
since he had been so delightfully entertained by a cus- 
tomer, and hoping he would call in to see him soon 
again. 


CHAPTER XVIII 


T HE people in Mill Hollow opened their eyes wide 
indeed, when they saw one morning a large fur- 
niture wagon stop in front of the tenement where Mrs. 
Stein lived, and a beautiful iron bed, painted white, a 
new mattress and pillow, carried in for Nell Myers. 
A number of children stood around when the driver 
stepped down and read from a card, “ Nell Myers, in 
care of Mrs. Stein, No. 17 Mill Street.” 

“ This is it ! This is it ! ” several shouted, pointing 
to the house, while the driver walked up to try to 
make out the faded number over the door. 

“ Mrs. Stein lives on the third floor, mister,” said a 
little girl. 

“ All right, missy ; show me the way,” and shortly all 
was landed in Mrs. Stein’s room. The man put the 
bed up for her, and she arranged it all in readiness for 
Nell before rolling it in the other room. 

Paul had stopped there and told her of its coming, 
and the poor woman was as pleased as if it had been for 
herself. 

“ Dot vos a fine bed, mein leetle friendt, und der mat- 
tress und pillow vos soft und comforble. She sleeb 
goot last night. Dot vos von peautiful bresent, und dot 
shentleman vos goot dot dake no money for it,” said 
Mrs. Stein, as Paul appeared at the door the next 
morning. 


280 The Story of a Little Poet 

“ Yes, he was very good,” said Paul, “ and everybody 
is so kind. I stopped at the doctor’s yesterday, and 
he told me he could not tell how long Nell would live. 
She might live a month, and she might live five or six. 
But you give her medicine, don’t you, as often as he 
said?” 

“ Yah, I do; I von’t forget dot. I do alvays vat he 
say, for dot doctor vos anodder goot shentleman, und 
giv me ten dollar to py t’ings for her to eat, — oranges, 
grapes, und all dem goot t’ings.” 

“ Do you mean Dr. Barlow gave you ten dollars 
in money?” asked Paul, scarcely believing he heard 
aright. 

“ Yah, dot vos vat I say, und some day he give me 
more ven dot go, he say.” 

“ Why, I think he gets kinder every day, and he is 
more and more like my old friend Dr. Andrews,” said 
Paul. 

“Vos dot so?” said Mrs. Stein, not having the least 
idea who his old friend Dr. Andrews was. “ Veil, all I 
got to say ish dish about dot shentleman, dot he vos 
like von goot kind father und I love him, and do always 
vat he say.” 

“ Good-morning, Nell,” Paul said, as he entered the 
inner room after this conversation, and took one of her 
hands, as was his custom, for she always held them out 
toward him as soon as she saw him. 

“ I am glad you came, angel child. Won’t you 
stay?” she asked, for Paul’s visits were always so very 
short, and he rarely ever sat down, but stood by Nell’s 
bedside during the few minutes of his call. 

“ I am sorry, but I cannot stay. Some day maybe I 
can ; I go to school now, and must catch the train, you 


The Story of a Little Poet 281 

know. How nice you look in your new bed ! Is it 
comfortable? ” 

“ Oh, it is so soft, and my back don’t hurt near so 
much. You are good to send it to me, angel child.” 
She always called him by the same name, even when 
she was rational, and seemed to think he was sent in 
answer to her prayer. His visits were indeed like 
angels’ visits to the suffering child, and she knew that 
all the good things she was enjoying came from him, 
and she was content to wait until the Christ was ready 
to call her, as long as she was being cared for by His 
little messenger. 

“ Will you sing sometime about those angels?” she 
asked. 

“ I will sing now, if you would like to hear me,” said 
Paul, “ then I must go right off.” 

“ Oh, will you sing for me right away, angel child? ” 

Immediately Paul began, his voice a little weak and 
trembling at first, but growing stronger as he went along, 
still holding Nell’s hand, as he stood close by the side 
of the bed. 

“ Angels ever bright and fair, 

Take, oh, take me to thy care,” 

was what he sang; the same that Nell listened to in the 
church. 

When he finished, he simply said, “ I must say good- 
by now. Perhaps I can sing more the next time I 
come.” Nell only smiled in answer; and as he passed 
out of the room, Mrs. Stein was wiping a tear from her 
eye with her calico apron. 

To think of Nell dying, did n’t have such terrors for 
him as it had at first, for Dr. Barlow had talked in such 
a beautiful way about it, and made it appear to him in 


282 


The Story of a Little Poet 

a different light altogether. “ It will be to Nell just 
like going to a beautiful bright home after being out in 
the cold and dark,” he had said. “ She is only too glad 
to go, and is looking now with her spiritual eyes, my 
boy; and what might seem dark and gloomy to us, to 
her is all clear and bright, and she is so eager to go, you 
would not want to keep her here suffering, when she can 
never get well, would you ? ” 

“ No, I would n’t want to keep her if she always had 
to suffer and wanted to go,” said Paul, feeling satisfied 
now that Dr. Barlow was right, and that Nell would be 
far better off if she were taken. 

“ Then if you should hear at any time that she had 
been called away, you will never worry or grieve over 
the fact, but only be glad that she has gone home at 
last with her mother, and is free from all her suffering,” 
said Dr. Barlow, as he tried to prepare Paul for the 
news he would hear one day sooner or later. 

“ Why, no, I will not worry at all when I hear it, if 
she will be happier and have no more pain,” he said, 
his face brightening. 

Dr. Barlow knew nothing of the selling of the books, 
for Paul had never mentioned it to any one in Avondale, 
and when Mrs. Stein told him about his visits, and 
bringing money his family sent every week, he thought 
Paul’s Aunt Helen was extremely charitable, and yet 
wondered that she was not afraid to send him with it 
so frequently to such a miserable place as Mill 
Hollow. 

One day Paul stopped at Nell’s in the afternoon on 
his way home, school having been dismissed for some 
reason at an earlier hour that day, and he took advan- 
tage of the opportunity to make a longer call, taking an 


The Story of a Little Poet 283 

earlier train and getting off at Fall Brook Station, 
which was only a short distance from Mill Hollow. 

Mrs. Stein met him at the door with raised finger, 
and said in a whisper, “ Der chile ish not so veil, leetle 
friendt. She vos wake haf der night mit dot awful 
cough und did n’t sleeb, und der doctor tell me she 
will not live long, pecause she vos very weak.” 

“ I am very sorry,” said Paul, “ but she wants to go 
home, Mrs. Stein, for it is all cold and dark to her here, 
and she can see a more beautiful world than this, because 
she is looking with her spiritual eyes.” He went on, 
remembering Dr. Barlow’s words, but poor Mrs. Stein 
hardly comprehended, so just shook her head and said, 
“ So ! So! Och, my! Och, my! it vos sad. Der 
fever is on now, leetle friendt, und she talk about dot 
Christ und angel chile all der time, und she loog so 
queer mit her eyes, but cum in und see her,” and with- 
out a word, Paul followed. Walking on tiptoe, she 
carefully turned the knob of the door, and peeped 
cautiously in, and, seeing Nell was awake, motioned to 
Paul, and together they entered the room. Mrs. Stein’s 
oldest child Louisa was sitting by the bed, always in 
charge of the sick room when her mother could not be 
present. 

“ You have come ! You have come, angel child,” 
said Nell, excitedly, as soon as she saw Paul. 

“ Have you been watching for me? ” he asked. 

“ Yes, I ’ve been watching for a long while. I wanted 
to tell you I heard Mother calling last night, and I 
thought she had taken me in her arms, but she went 
away again and left me. Why did she do that, angel 
child?” 

Paul did not know how to answer at first. He was 


284 The Story of a Little Poet 

quite affected by Nell’s words and her labored breath- 
ing, but she was waiting, looking eagerly up in his face, 
while he winked his eyes very fast, and tried to think 
of something to say. 

“ Oh, she will take you some day, Nell,” he finally 
said ; “ perhaps she is n’t ready for you to go yet.” 

“ But she ought to take me when I am ready,” said 
Nell, her breath coming in quick, short gasps. “ She 
cannot be far away, though, for sometimes I see her, 
angel child, and she is so near. Don’t forget to tell 
Father, if you ever see him, all I told you, will you? ” 

“ No, I will not forget. I have it all written down on 
paper,” answered Paul ; “ maybe I will go to-night and 
won’t see you here again, angel child, but you ’ll be up 
there, won’t you? ” 

“ I hope I shall,” replied Paul. 

“ Tell me what it is like, angel child ; that beautiful 
city you know, where you come from.” 

Again Paul was puzzled, not knowing what to say, 
and scarcely able to talk for the emotion caused by Nell’s 
pitiable condition and flighty talk. But finally he con- 
trolled himself, for he had a remarkably strong will, 
and he suddenly thought of a little story he had once 
read called “ Gates Ajar.” That described a little child 
finding her way to heaven. After days of weary 
wanderings she finally saw two beautiful gates loom 
up before her, that almost dazzled her eyes with their 
brilliancy, being of gold and inlaid with costly jewels. 
They stood ajar, as though waiting for her to enter, 
and as she stepped in, filled with awe at so much gran- 
deur, two beautiful angels met her and placed a crown 
on her head. The gates were closed again. Then it 
described all that she saw and heard in this wonderful 
city. 


The Story of a Little Poet 285 

“ Perhaps if I tell her something about that story, it 
might please her,” thought Paul. So he cleared his 
throat and began: “ No one can tell just how beautiful 
that city is until they get there. We cannot think of 
anything so fair as heaven. Just think of the most 
beautiful spot in this world not comparing with it. I 
have read that the gates are of pearl and gold, studded 
with jewels, and if you are good, you will find them 
ajar waiting for you to enter. Then angels come and 
place a crown on your head, and put a pure white robe 
on you, and they take you by the hand and lead you 
right in among hundreds and thousands of angels, and 
you hear sweet singing and harps playing softly. 
And the angels say, ‘Welcome home, my child. Come, 
take this harp and sing with us ; ’ and no matter if you 
never knew how to play on one before, somehow you 
can then, just like the angels, and soon you will find 
yourself singing with them too, as though you had 
always been there.” 

Nell listened intently to catch every word, and a 
happy smile spread over her face, as she thought she 
was going to that place he was describing, to do just 
what the angels did. 

“ Tell me more ! more, angel child,” she said, when 
he finished. 

“ To-morrow I will, but not to-day. I must go home 
now.” 

“ To-morrow ! to-morrow ! ” repeated Nell, absently, 
“ that is a long, long way off, angel child.” 

“Oh, no, it is not very long, Nell; it will soon be 
here,” said Paul. 

“ Biit if I ’m not here you will know, angel child, where 
I am, won’t you?” and as Nell spoke these words, she 


286 The Story of a Little Poet 

closed her eyes and sank back exhausted among the 
pillows. 

Paul was very tired when he reached home, in fact, so 
much so that his little knees actually trembled and 
seemed scarcely able to support him when he walked 
up the path. 

Roy was just coming out of the door, with his treasure 
bag hanging on his arm. 

“ Hello, Perseffer,” he said, “ I ’m going out to make 
a call. Don’t you want to come with me? ” 

“I am too tired to make calls,” replied Paul. “ Be- 
sides, I have n’t had any dinner.” 

“ I ’ll come in and wait until you eat some if you ’ll 
come,” said Roy, coaxingly. “ I told Mr. Timothy 
Jenks I would bring you sometime, for he wants to see 
you right close. He could n’t tell what you looked like, 
he said, when you passed his house ; you were too far 
away.” 

“ I ’ll go some other day. I ’m too tired,” persisted 
Paul. 

“ No, you ’re not. Eat some dinner, then you ’ll be 
strong.” 

“ Why, yes, go with him,” said Aunt Helen, hearing 
Roy’s persuasions, as he followed Paul into the house. 
“They are very fond of children, and seem to enjoy 
Roy’s visits so much. Besides, we will not take our 
long walk this afternoon ; it looks like snow, and is very 
cold and windy.” 

Paul said nothing more, but quietly ate his dinner, 
then reluctantly joined Roy to make a neighborly call. 

“ He ’s a jolly old feller. I know you ’ll like Mr. 
Timothy Jenks,” said Roy, as they walked along. 

“ How did you get acquainted with him? ” asked Paul. 


The Story of a Little Poet 287 

“ Why, don’t you know, I was walking by, the day we 
came here, and I stopped for a minute to look in their 
gate, and I saw a jolly old lady sitting on the porch, 
knitting. She called me in and asked me to take a seat, 
and if I was one of the little new neighbors. I said 
‘Yes, I’m a new neighbor, but I’m not very little.’ 
That made her laugh, and then an old man came hob- 
bling out with a stick to see what she was laughing 
about, and, oh, my ! his face was as red as blood, and 
his eyebrows looked like two big yellow caterpillars, 
and he had a big ulster [ulcer] on his cheek. Then he 
looked so grumpy, just like an old bull, and this is the 
way he walked, Persef — look.” Paul turned his eyes, 
then Roy stooped over, turned his feet in, and made his 
legs shake as he imitated poor Timothy Jenks with his 
rheumatic gout. 

“ He grunted and groaned so when he sat down, Per- 
sef, that I thought he would esplode, for his face got 
redder and redder, and he said, ‘ Who have we here, 
Susannah?’ and he pointed right at me with his cane, 
and that made me mad. ‘ This is one of our new neigh- 
bors, Timothy,’ she said, ‘ but don’t frighten him by 
looking so fierce.’ 

“ He gave a grunt, just like a pig, and made his 
caterpillar eyebrows go way up on his forehead, which 
was awful high ; it went all the way to the back of his 
head, and just a little fringe of hair was down by his 
neck. 

“ ‘ Come here to me, Captain,’ he said. I went to 
him, because I knew he meant me, but I said, ‘ I am 
not a captain yet, but I belong to the Knights of Pityus 
Club, and some day they will make me one.’ 

“ Well, Persef, that made him laugh till he cried, and 


288 


The Story of a Little Poet 

Mrs. Jenks laughed too. I laughed, and we all laughed 
together. He was jolly after that, and I liked him better. 
After awhile he went in again, and Mrs. Jenks said, ‘ You 
must n’t mind him when he grunts and groans, because 
he has been very ill, and has the gout, and last winter 
had nervous posteration, and that makes him a little 
cross.’ I was sorry for him then, Persef, because he 
must have awful pains. I told Mrs. Jenks I did n’t mind 
him, ’cause she seemed worried about what I ’d think 
about him. I told her if she would put a plaster on 
him, like Pat used, he would get better; and if that 
would n’t do any good, to try Leatricity [Electricity] ; 
that’s a fine thing for rheumatism too, Pat said so. 
That’s why I’m taking my bag. I want to show him 
the kind of plaster Pat used when he had the rheumatism 
in his shoulder. Do you think they would laugh if I 
showed them all my klection of curosties,” he asked in 
a very solemn voice, just as they entered Mr. Jenks’s 
gate. 

“ I don’t know, Roy,” replied Paul. “ If I was ac- 
quainted with them, maybe I could tell. Some people, 
you know, laugh at nothing, and some never laugh at 
things they ought to laugh at.” 

“Maybe I better just show him the plaster; ’cause, 
you know, if he was so imperlite as to laugh at my ele- 
gant curosties, I would just be so mad I ’d never go to 
his house again, and it ’s fine here,” he continued, in a 
whisper, as Paul rang the bell. “ They give me lemon- 
ade, ginger cakes, and lots of good things.” 

The maid ushered them into the library, where, as 
usual, sat Mr. Jenks with a paper, and Mrs. Jenks with 
her knitting. 

“ Good-afternoon,” said Roy, as he stepped in ahead 


The Story of a Little Poet 289 

of Paul. “ This is my brother, the Perseffer. He writes 
beautiful verses, and takes care of organ-grinders, and 
all the poor.” 

Paul blushed at this introduction, as he stepped for- 
ward to shake hands with Mrs. Jenks, then her grumpy 
husband, in such a polite and courteous manner that 
he quite won the hearts of the old couple, the very 
moment he was introduced. While he shook hands, 
Roy stood off, watching him with a very proud look, 
holding his head on one side. He was sure they would 
think the Perseffer was a fine boy, for every one did. 

“ So we have a little philanthropist here ! ” said old 
Mr. Timothy Jenks, as he held Paul’s hand and drew 
him quite close to his chair. “ I am proud to make 
your acquaintance indeed, and would like to hear about 
some of your work among the poor.” 

“ Oh, I don’t do very much,” said Paul, laughing. 
“ But when I grow up to be a man, I want to do a great 
deal, like Dr. Andrews does.” 

“ I think you have already done a great deal, from 
what your brother tells me,” said Mr. Jenks. 

“Oh, yes, you have now, Persef; you know you are 
always hunting up somebody who is poor and sick, and 
Aunt Helen says so too. What was that you called 
him?” went on Roy, slipping up close to Mr. Jenks’s 
chair, by the side of Paul. 

“A philanthropist, do you mean?” asked Mr. Jenks. 

“ Yes, that’s what I mean. I don’t like the Perseffer 
to be called that kind of a name. What does it mean? ” 

Mr. Jenks laughed at this, and so did his wife, but 
before he made a reply, Paul said, “ I know what it is. 
It is a person who is always trying to help the poor 
along.” He remembered that Mr. Harvey, the man in 

19 


290 The Story of a Little Poet 

the furniture store, had also called him that, and told 
him what it meant. 

“ Well, I don’t see how Phil Anther’s fist could 
mean anything about looking after the poor,” said 
Roy. 

Old Mr. Jenks laughed at this remark until he cried, 
and had to wipe the tears from his eyes. His face got 
very red, and then he had a coughing spell that was so 
loud and deep that Paul and Roy both stepped off from 
the chair to give him plenty of room. 

Mrs. Jenks laughed just as heartily, and was obliged 
to put down her knitting and take off her glasses to 
wipe her eyes. Paul and Roy could not help but join 
in, although it was seeing Mr. Jenks laugh that was the 
funniest part to them. 

“ Dear ! dear ! ” he said, grunting and groaning 
between words, as he leaned back exhausted. “ You ’re 
the greatest little chap I ever did see. No one would 
want to go to the Minstrels when you are around, that 
is a fact. Don’t you think so, Susannah?” he asked, 
still wiping his eyes. 

“ I would prefer a visit from him any time to going 
there,” replied Mrs. Jenks. 

“What have you in that bag?” she asked when they 
had quieted down. 

“ Oh, that is my treasure bag,” said Roy, his ex- 
pression changing immediately, as he thought of the 
plaster he was to show as a sample for Mr. Jenks’s 
gout, but which he feared now to bring forth, right 
after such a prolonged laugh at his expense. 

“ Why don’t you show him what you have ? ” said 
Paul. 

“ I ’m afraid, Persef.” 


The Story of a Little Poet 291 

“ Afraid ! ” said Mr. Jenks. “ Why, surely you ain’t 
afraid of me.” 

“Well, you see, this is it,” said Paul, speaking for 
him, while Roy looked his approval. “ He does n’t like 
any one to laugh at his treasure bag. He does n’t mind 
other things, but he thinks it rude to laugh at his col- 
lection of curiosities.” 

“You don’t think I would be so rude, do you?” 
asked Mr. Jenks, more anxious than ever to see the 
contents of the bag, and assuming an expression as 
serious as possible, determining not to laugh, no matter 
what he saw. 

Encouraged by his manner, Roy stepped up close to 
his chair again, and, looking in the bag, pulled out a 
particular box. 

“ Why, you know I told you about a plaster that was 
good for rheumatism,” he began, “ so I brought this to 
show you the kind.” And taking the lid off the box, 
he brought forth the sticky, crumpled old porous plas- 
ter and handed it to Mr. Jenks for inspection. 

He took it from Roy’s hand with the tip of his fingers, 
afraid he might hurt his feelings if he refused, and bit- 
ing his lip to keep from laughing. 

“ If you would just buy some like that, I know it 
would help you, because Pat wore that one for a week 
right on his shoulder blade, and he said it took every 
bit of pain out of the blade.” 

Mr. Jenks bit his lip harder, and his face grew very 
red, his cheeks puffed away out, and Mrs. Jenks feared 
there would be a catastrophe any moment. The boys 
did not notice it, however. Mr. Jenks was very quiet, 
and Roy thought it was because he was so interested in 
what he was telling him. 


292 The Story of a Little Poet 

“ If you can’t get any to-day,” went on Roy, “ you can 
have this one to-night. I think there ’s a good deal of 
medicine on it yet, — enough for one night, I guess.” 

It was a shame, but poor Mr. Timothy Jenks could 
control himself no longer, and looked as though on the 
verge of a stroke of apoplexy. His mouth suddenly 
opened, and right before Roy’s eyes he burst forth in 
one of his deep, sonorous laughs, that shook his whole 
body and the chair he sat on. 

Mrs. Jenks was very much provoked at this, and 
began to make excuses for him, for her husband was 
not able to do so. Roy gave one step back, with a 
look of greatest surprise and indignation. He never 
even smiled, but with his lips pressed tightly together, 
and a very determined air, picked up the plaster Mr. 
Jenks had dropped, placed it in the box, then the box 
in the bag, and before any one could stop him was out 
of the room like a shot and making for the door. He 
had been grossly insulted, and no calling or persuasions 
could get him back. 

“ I am sorry! I am sorry! Indeed I am,” said Mr. 
Jenks, recovering himself, “ but I could n’t help it, 
indeed, I could n’t, Susannah.” 

“ Well, if I could you could ; you did n’t try very 
hard, Timothy.” 

“ Did n’t try very hard ! hey ! Well, that shows how 
much you know about it. I thought the top of my 
head would come off and my eyes fly out; that is how 
much I tried. 

“Won’t he come back?” he asked, as Paul appeared 
at the door, having run after Roy through the hall to 
call him. 

“ No, he won’t come. He ran right out of the door 


The Story of a Little Poet 293 

and down to the gate as fast as he could go, and I 
guess I had better go after him, because he feels very 
badly.” 

“ Well, you tell him I did n’t mean to insult him. I 
would n’t have done it for anything. Now I am afraid 
he will always dislike me and never come here again, 
and I ’ve enjoyed the little fellow so much. He ’s 
made me forget my gout many a time.” 

“ I guess he will get over it and come back again 
when I tell him how much you like him,” said Paul. 

“ Perhaps you can fix it with him better than we can,” 
said Mr. Jenks. “And come in yourself. I would 
like to hear about some of those poor people you have 
done so much for.” 

“ I will come in some day and tell you about the 
organ-grinder and his lame daughter, if you would like 
to hear about them.” 

“ Indeed, we would. I know it will be very interest- 
ing,” said Mrs. Jenks. 

Then Paul bade them good-by and started off to 
find Roy and give him Mr. Jenks’s apologies. He did 
not run as Roy did, however, for he was very tired, 
longing to lie down and take a nap, a desire that was 
very unusual for him. 


CHAPTER XIX 


I T was just two days before Christmas, and the streets 
of Chicago were all bustle and confusion. Men, 
women, and children rushed hither and thither, nearly 
all on the same errand, to buy a Christmas gift for some 
loved one. 

Stores were draped with evergreen and holly, and 
their windows gay and attractive with all sorts of pretty 
things to catch the eye of the passer-by. Every one 
was loaded with bundles, and little Paul Arlington 
wondered, as he trudged on among them, whether any 
of the people he saw were buying presents for the poor. 
He hoped they were, for to him it seemed very selfish 
to be buying only for those who had enough ; but how- 
ever that might be, he, at least, was thinking about 
them, and had come to sell more books for Nell, then 
to buy some candy and a present for the little chil- 
dren in Mill Hollow who he knew were too poor to 
have any Christmas, and perhaps never had as much as 
a piece of candy or a brand-new toy. 

He had no school-books in his bag this time. They 
were all little painted ones he had made, with poems in 
them. School had already closed until after Christmas, 
and he had persuaded his Aunt Helen to allow him to 
go to the city to buy some presents, she thinking he in- 
tended to purchase some little things with his savings 
for them all at home. 


The Story of a Little Poet 295 

When he arrived at the corner where he usually 
stood, he found some people already there waiting for 
him, for by this time the story had spread from one to 
another about a beautiful boy who stood on a particular 
corner very frequently, selling little books of poems of 
his own make and composition, in support of a poor 
child, until hundreds knew of it and were eager to 
possess one of his books, and especially to see him and 
hear him talk. 

He was in a great hurry on this particular day, and 
could not be drawn into any prolonged conversation, 
but, quickly passing his books around, said as he always 
did, “ Won’t you all please buy a book of poems, for 
the money is for a poor little sick girl, who has no 
father or mother to take care of her?” In a few 
moments he sold every one. Carefully placing the 
money in an inside pocket, and thanking each pur- 
chaser in the politest manner, he was off with his empty 
bag, making straight for a candy store not far off. Here 
he purchased about twenty-five small round boxes, with 
pictures on them, filled with little round drops of candy, 
for ten cents apiece. Then, placing them in his school- 
bag, he hurried to a toy store, where he purchased the 
same number of cheap toys, such as tops, marbles, jack 
jumpers, dolls, etc. Placing those in the bag with the 
candy, he then made straight for the railway station. He 
had already on another day purchased Nell’s present. 
It was a doll, for which he paid two dollars. “ All girls 
like dolls,” he thought, “ and I never saw any at Mrs. 
Stein’s, so I guess Nell has none.” He was very tired 
when he sat down in the train, and actually leaned his 
head back and closed his eyes. Every day he grew 
more and more weary, and that to which he had looked 


296 The Story of a Little Poet 

forward as being a source of great pleasure was instead 
beginning to loom up like some gigantic task he did 
not seem to have the strength or desire to battle with. 

It required a great effort on his part now to paint, 
and write the poetry in the books, and to sell them 
on the streets. He felt like sleeping all the time, and 
his brain grew dull, and he was all out of sorts with 
himself. Suddenly it occurred to him as the train sped 
along that he had better get out at Fall Brook Station 
and give the children the presents, for perhaps Aunt 
Helen would not let him go down to Mill Hollow, and 
it was earlier anyway than she expected him home. 
It did not take him long to decide, for the conductor 
just then opened the door, and called out Fall Brook. 
He was up in an instant, and made for the door, as the 
train slowed up. 

Wearily he walked along, dragging the heavy bag on 
his arm, and when he arrived at Mill Hollow, began 
to take the gifts out one by one and hand them to the 
children as he passed along. Each one was given a 
toy and a small box of candy. Some he saw at the 
windows, and beckoning to them, waited until they 
came out and then handed them the same, saying, 
“ Here is a little Christmas present for you, and I hope 
you will like it.” 

Some of them had no wraps on, and stood shivering 
in the cold, but they did not seem to mind it, so eager 
were they to see Nell’s angel child, as he was called 
now by the people in Mill Hollow, for they all had 
heard how Nell had taken him for one of the children 
on the window-pane and called him angel child when 
she was flighty from the burning fever. 

They always ran to the windows and doors to see 


The Story of a Little Poet 297 

him when he came in the mornings ; but this was the 
first time he had brought anything for them, except 
when he gave the sled to Jennie Miller. 

One little girl he saw sitting on a doorstep, with a 
shawl over her head, looking very sad, he thought. He 
stepped up quite close to her and said sweetly, “ I wish 
you a merry Christmas, and here is a little gift for you. 
It ’s a little early, but I thought I would come when I 
could.” 

The astonished child took the gift without a word, 
but her face expressed the pleasure she felt as she arose 
and followed him, with many others, up to the house 
where Nell lived. 

Mrs. Stein met him at the door, her eyes filled with 
tears, and before he spoke, she said, “ She vos schoost 
ashleep again,” pointing to Nell’s room, “ und I dinks 
every time she vill not vaken any more. She vos so 
weak vat she can dakes no more medicine and noddings 
to eat. Och, my ! Och, my ! I hopes she soon go to 
dot peautiful city you tell her about, where dey ’re 
never sick mit pain.” 

“Do you really think she is nearly there?” asked 
Paul, in a whisper, holding his hand over his heart, for 
the news quite took his breath, notwithstanding he 
thought he would be ready to meet it when it finally 
came. 

“ Yah, I t’ink so, leetle friendt.” 

“ I will not go in to see her, then, if she is asleep,” he 
said. “ I will come again to-morrow, because I want 
to bring her Christmas present, and here are some for 
your little children,” he said, bringing out four toys with 
the boxes of candy. “ I will bring yours when I bring 
Nell’s, as I left it at home with hers,” 


298 The Story of a Little Poet 

u Oh, danks you and your people all der time. You 
vos so goot vat I never seen.” 

“ And here is more money too, Mrs. Stein, to buy 
anything more you want,” continued Paul, handing her 
all the money he had left. 

“Vy, mine leetle friendt,” said Mrs. Stein, over- 
whelmed with the riches that were heaped upon her, 
“ I t’ink you vos too goot; ven I can, I go see your goot 
rich people to dank them for all dish.” 

“ Oh, never mind, you need n’t bother about coming 
up now,” said Paul, imagining what his Aunt Helen 
would do if Mrs. Stein appeared at the house. 

“ Ven der child dies, den I go,” said Mrs. Stein. 

Wearily Paul started for home with his empty bag, 
and almost tumbled on the porch when he arrived at 
the door, from sheer exhaustion. 

Aunt Helen, Roy, and Grace were out, so the weary 
child threw himself on the couch in the library and in 
a few moments had fallen asleep. Hulda came in and 
put an afghan over him, and noticed his flushed face. 
“ The boy is not well,” she thought; “ I never saw him 
do this before, and he looks thin and tired. I guess 
Miss Helen better send for the doctor.” Paul did not 
awaken when they all came in from their walk; and 
Aunt Helen was surprised and alarmed to see him 
sleeping, and the deep circles under his eyes, with a 
flush on his face that looked very much like fever. 
She motioned to the children to be quiet, and then sat 
down by the couch to watch him. It was strange, she 
thought, as she gazed in his face, how very thin 
he was getting. His cheeks had surely lost a great 
deal of their roundness. “ I suppose he has tired him- 
self out with his Christmas shopping and taken cold. 


The Story of a Little Poet 299 

I will keep him in for a day or so and doctor him 
up.” 

Paul felt just as tired when he awoke from a two 
hours’ sleep as he did when he first lay down. He 
made no attempt to get up, but lay quietly, as though 
only half awake, and ready to go off to sleep again any 
moment. 

“ I am afraid you are not well, Paul,” said Aunt 
Helen, bending over him as he opened his eyes. 

“ Oh, yes, I am, Aunt Helen, only I ’m tired, that is 
all,” he said wearily. 

“ Poor little dear, you do not only look tired, but 
completely exhausted. I am afraid you have been 
working too hard for Christmas, and running around 
too much to-day in the city.” 

“Maybe I have,” said Paul, “but I will rest now; 
only I want to ask you, Aunt Helen, if you won’t let me 
take a doll down to poor little Nell for a Christmas 
present.” 

“ I have no objections to the child having the doll, 
but I am afraid you will not be well enough to take it; 
however, Hulda can take it for you, if that will be any 
comfort to you.” 

“ No, that would not do near as well. I would so like 
to give it to her myself, Aunt Helen. Nothing could 
hurt me in Mill Hollow, I know.” 

“ Well, we will see when to-morrow arrives, but rest 
your mind on the subject, for I will see that it will get 
to her somehow.” 

“ I wish Father and Mother could be here,” he said, 
tears coming to his eyes, as the great longing came 
over him again to see them and have them near him 
once more. 


300 The Story of a Little Poet 

“I wish they could too, Paul dear. It will be a 
strange Christmas indeed this year, but we will try to 
be as happy as possible, and not wish them back for a 
while, when we know how much your father is improv- 
ing, and from all reports will return to us in the spring 
entirely restored to health.” 

“ Yes, it makes me happy when I think of that, and 
I must not wish them to come home, for he might get 
sick again ; ” and tired little Paul sighed and closed his 
eyes once more. 

“ I do not think it necessary to send for the doctor,” 
Aunt Helen remarked to Hulda. “ He is only very 
tired, and has taken a little cold. I think he will be all 
right in a day or so.” He was given a warm bath and 
arranged comfortably for the night. “ In the morning 
you will be as well as ever, I am sure. All you want is 
a good sleep,” said Aunt Helen, kissing him good-night. 

The next morning he appeared to be no worse, but no 
better, and Aunt Helen would not, of course, give her 
consent to his going to Mill Hollow with the doll. 
Even if he had been well she would not have done 
so, as it began to snow early in the morning and con- 
tinued all day. 

“ If you are so bent upon it, Paul,” she said, seeing 
his great disappointment, “ I will find some one to take 
it down for you to-day.” 

“ If I thought I should be well enough by to-morrow, 
I would rather take it myself on Christmas Day,” said 
Paul. 

“ Very well, leave it until then; and if it is clear and 
you are well enough, Hulda can go with you.” 

He made no audible objections to Hulda’s company, 
and did not mention the subject during the day. He 


The Story of a Little Poet 301 

still felt very languid and cared not to interest himself 
in all the Christmas talk that was the principal topic of 
conversation in the house. Occasionally he fell asleep 
on the couch, but instead of being refreshed after he 
awoke, he felt only more drowsy, and had very little to 
say. He tried to read several times, but that was 
impossible. He could not get interested; besides, it 
made his head feel worse. “ Father said before he went 
away he felt so tired all the time, and I guess the kind 
he felt I must be feeling now,” he thought. 

It did not cease snowing until the sun went down ; 
then it cleared away beautifully; the stars came out 
bright and clear, and the full moon shone with an un- 
usual brilliancy. Paul was delighted to see it just before 
going to bed, and hoped he would feel well enough to 
go to Nell’s the next day, as the prospects were that it 
would be clear. It being Christmas Eve, Roy and Grace 
were in a state of ecstasy in anticipation of what the 
coming day might have in store for them. Paul seemed 
not to be interested at all in anything they said, or that 
was going on in the house. Some mysterious boxes 
and bundles had arrived and were taken quickly to the 
Christmas room, where the tree was to be, and all the 
gifts displayed. But the door was quickly locked, and 
no one had a chance even to peep, but Paul was not at 
all curious and did not seem to care what the boxes and 
bundles contained. 

“ Paul is not himself at all,” said Aunt Helen to Hulda 
during the day. “ I do not think he is much better; he 
seems so listless and indifferent to everything, which is 
very unusual for him. If he does not improve more 
by to-morrow, I will send for Dr. Barlow. Poor little 
fellow, I suppose he thinks his Aunt Helen a perfect 


302 The Story of a Little Poet 

old ogre ; and perhaps I have been a little bit too severe 
with him, Hulda, but it really was all for his own good 
that I tried to rid him of all these foolish notions about 
the poor. He is so bent on taking a doll he has pur- 
chased to that poor little beggar he found at the church 
that I could not refuse him, and told him if he were well 
enough you could go with him to-morrow, and he could 
take it to her. But I am afraid he will not improve suf- 
ficiently in one day to risk taking such a long walk.” 

“Well, if he don’t, I ’ll take it for him. We won’t let 
him have that disappointment on Christmas Day, any- 
way,” said Hulda. 

It was not long before Roy and Grace were soundly 
sleeping, their hearts light and happy, with no melan- 
choly thoughts to drive away their slumber. But the 
little poet and friend of the poor, who needed sleep 
much more than they, was lying wide awake. “ If this 
pain would leave my head,” he thought, “ and this tired 
feeling go away, I should be all right. But I must try 
to go to sleep if I want to be well enough to-morrow to 
walk to Mill Hollow.” And so thinking, he closed his 
eyes, but could not sleep. He could see Nell before 
him all the time, lying on her bed in the corner of her 
room, and imagined all sorts of things concerning her. 
“ Perhaps she will die before I get there,” or “ she may 
be calling for me, and how dreadful to think of her 
being disappointed.” Finally, he fell into a troubled 
sleep, and dreamed that Nell was calling him and watch- 
ing the door with that wild staring look he had often 
seen. “ Oh, come to me ! Come to me, angel child, 
before I die,” she called, her arms outstretched in eager 
expectancy. He awoke with a start and sat upright in 
bed, peering through the darkness of the room. For a 


The Story of a Little Poet 303 

moment it all seemed real, and that Nell was actually 
looking at him from one of the dark corners, though she 
had ceased calling. Then she disappeared, and at the 
same time he realized that he had been dreaming, and 
lay back on the pillow again, trying to still the wild beat- 
ings of his heart. Although he felt satisfied that it was 
all but a dream, yet he began to think that it was sent 
to him perhaps, as a message, and how dreadfully he 
would feel if he went the next day and was told she was 
dead and had been calling for him. The more he 
thought of it, the more he felt convinced of it, and 
finally he determined he would get up and go to Mill 
Hollow. “ I will take Nero with me and I won’t be 
afraid,” he thought. “ No one will see me ; I will be 
back before they are up and will take the key.” 

He knew it must be far in the night, for the sleigh- 
bells had ceased their jingling, and not a sound was 
heard in the house. His mind once made up, he 
immediately acted, without a moment’s hesitation. 
Cautiously he stepped out on the floor and groped 
about in the dark for his clothes. Somehow he felt 
stronger than he did the day before, only the pain in 
his head was just the same. He was soon dressed, then 
he went to the closet for Nell’s doll, and, holding it care- 
fully in his arms, he stepped to the door on his toes, 
and cautiously turned the knob. Nero had been lying 
on a mat outside the door, as was his nightly custom, 
and his quick ear had caught the sound of some one 
moving in the room within; and as Paul opened the 
door, he gave a bark. He was silenced by a few whis- 
pered words, and, knowing well what his young master 
required of him, did not attempt to bark again. Paul 
stood quite still for a moment and listened, but all was 


304 The Story of a Little Poet 

still, not a sound was heard. Nero frequently gave a 
bark at night if he heard the slightest noise, so it never 
alarmed any one when they heard it With his hand on 
the dog’s collar, and the doll clasped in his arm, he 
walked across the hall to the stairway. He passed the 
Christmas room, the door being now wide open, and all 
in readiness for them to enter in the morning to see 
what Santa Claus had brought, as was their custom 
every year. There stood the tree, with its bright balls 
and glittering tinsel, and the room was filled with gifts 
of all kinds. But it held no attraction whatever for Paul 
Arlington. He simply glanced in as he passed by, 
knowing it contained many surprises for him, but he 
had no desire to discover what they were. “To-morrow 
will be time enough,” he thought. “ After I see Nell and 
give her the doll, then I ’ll have plenty of time to think 
about my Christmas.” Every time his footstep made 
a little creak on the stairs he stopped for a moment, 
almost breathless, to listen if any one had been dis- 
turbed. The moon shone bright upon him and Nero 
through a window on the top landing of the stairs, as 
slowly they made their way down. 

Safely he reached the lower hall, but was disappointed 
to find that his coat and hat were not on the rack where 
he expected to find them. There was nothing on it at all 
except a large, soft felt hat of his father’s. “ Well ! why 
won’t that do?” he thought, taking it down. “ It will 
cover my whole head and make me warmer.” But what 
would he do for a coat? He could not run the risk of 
going upstairs again ; some one would surely hear him. 
Suddenly he thought of an old black ulster of Hulda’s 
that usually hung in a closet in the kitchen. “ I will put 
that on ; no one will see me ; better than nothing,” was 


































































































The Story of a Little Poet 305 

the conclusion that he came to, and, in a few moments, 
he had it on and buttoned up. The sleeves came down 
below his hands, and it trailed on the floor as he walked 
along. He thoughtfully took the key out of the door, 
then quietly closed it after him. Outside on the step 
stood his rubber boots. He was glad that he saw them, 
for the snow was deep, and he knew by the time that he 
reached Mill Hollow that his feet and legs would be 
wet. He soon had them on and stepped off the porch, 
with Nero at his side ; the dog seemed to understand 
just what was going on, and to know that it was a very 
important and solemn occasion, and that he must be 
very quiet and dignified. He walked along solemnly, 
rubbing his great head occasionally against Paul, as 
though assuring him of his confidence and sympathy. 
When they reached the gate, Paul halted for a moment, 
filled with awe. He gazed up at the full moon, sailing 
along so quietly through the clear winter sky, as though 
asking its guidance before starting on so perilous a 
journey. 

His head continued to throb as he trudged through 
the snow. How hot it felt, and how refreshing the crisp 
night air as it fanned his cheeks ! Once a strange feel- 
ing of fear seized him, and he stopped and pressed his 
hand to his heart, for it seemed to beat so fast that he 
fancied that he could hear it, and the pain in his head 
and eyes grew more intense. 

He wondered if the pain in Nell’s head was anything 
like this pain; if so, he did not think it strange that she 
could not walk the day he found her, or that she talked 
so strangely. “ Hers must have been worse, however, 
for I can walk, only I am awful tired, but I will rest for 
a whole week when I come back.” 


20 


306 The Story of a Little Poet 

On, on he went, past the church and Dr. Barlow’s. 
He saw no lights in any of the houses, and the town 
was wrapped in slumber. One ! two ! a bell tolled out 
through the stillness, and startled him ; he stood and 
trembled for fully a moment. 

When he reached the top of the hill and looked down 
eagerly at Mill Hollow, he was sure that he saw the 
flicker of a lamp through a window, and thought that 
it was in Mrs. Stein’s house. What did it mean? Only 
this, that Nell must be dying, for a light to be burning 
at such an hour. 

He was about to hurry down the hill, when the sound 
of footsteps crunching upon the snow behind him 
attracted his attention, and, turning quickly, he saw a 
man approaching. Nero began to bark, and Paul 
clutched his collar and silenced him, while he turned 
and stood waiting the man’s approach. 

Notwithstanding Nero’s protection, his heart beat 
violently, and he stood as if paralyzed. 

“ Who are you, and what are you? ” asked the man, 
as he came nearer and beheld the strange little figure, 
with a large felt hat covering his entire head, and a long 
black coat trailing in the snow, clasping to his heart 
a doll, and his hand clutching the collar of a large 
dog. 

“ I am Paul Arlington,” he replied in a trembling 
voice, recovering somewhat from his fright when he 
saw the man looked kindly enough, and appeared 
rather to be afraid of him. 

“ Paul Arlington ! ” he repeated ; “ I never heard of 
you. Do you live in Avondale?” and he stooped and 
peered in the face under the hat while he spoke. 

“ Yes, I live there,” replied Paul. 


The Story of a Little Poet 307 

“ Why, then, in the name of goodness are you walk- 
ing the snowy roads at this time of night?” 

“ Because,” replied Paul, “ a child is dying down 
there,” pointing to Mill Hollow. “ See the light,” he 
continued, gaining more courage ; “ I think it is in Nell’s 
room, and so she must be dying, and I — ” 

“Nell’s room!” interrupted the man, very much 
excited. “Nell who?” 

“ Why, Nell Myers, sir. Do you know her?” 

“Do I know her? Do I know her?” wailed the man. 
“ Why, it is my little Nell, — my own little child. I have 
come back to take care of her. Tell me it is a joke, 
child, gnome, or spirit, whatever you may be,” he con- 
tinued, taking hold of Paul’s arm, but not roughly, his 
voice filled with anguish. 

“No, it’s no joke; it is all true, for I have been to 
see her, and she has told me all about you,” said Paul, 
knowing now that it was Nell’s father, and not feeling 
at all afraid of him, but thinking only how glad Nell 
would be to see him before she died. 

“Tell me! tell me! child, are you wide awake, or 
walking in your sleep and dreaming,” said Fred Myers, 
peering into Paul’s face again, yet still holding him by 
the arm. 

“ No, I am not asleep. I am very wide awake ; but 
come quick if you want to see Nell before she dies. 
She has something to tell you. She has been watch- 
ing and waiting for you a long time; but you never 
came, and she told me that if I ever saw you to give 
you her message, and I have it written on paper, but 
perhaps now she can tell you herself. She will be so 
glad to see you,” said Paul, as they started down the 
hill. 


308 The Story of a Little Poet 

Fred Myers wrung his hands and moaned repeatedly, 
as they trudged along through the snow. Weary little 
Paul’s legs grew heavier every moment, and his breath 
came in quick, short gasps, as he tried to keep up with 
the long strides of his companion. 

“ What am I thinking of ? ” said Fred Myers, suddenly 
turning, and looking at the little exhausted figure pant- 
ing by his side. “ You must not come with me, child; 
go home as quickly as you can. Your parents surely 
don’t know of this?” 

“ My parents are in France,” said Paul, “ and I cannot 
go back now, for I had a dream and heard Nell calling 
me, and I must see her before she dies.” 

There was something very weird and unnatural about 
this strange little figure to Fred Myers. The boy’s 
spirituelle face and sweet voice made him still doubt 
whether he was actually flesh and blood. 

“Will you go back as soon as you see her?” he 
asked, “if I let you come?” 

“ Yes, I will go right away, indeed, I will, sir,” said 
Paul, on the verge of tears, fearing at the last moment 
that he might be forced to turn back. 

“Well, come along, then, quick. I will carry you a 
little way, for you are out of breath,” said Fred Myers, 
picking him up in his arms, to which Paul made no 
objections. 

“Why do you carry this doll, child?” 

“ It is Nell’s Christmas present. All little girls like 
dolls, you know, and I thought it would make her happy 
to play with it, but of course she won’t need it if she is 
dying.” 

“ Oh, my poor, poor baby ! My poor little girl, to 
have no one to think of her on that day, and I have been 


The Story of a Little Poet 309 

so cruel to leave her. But it was that awful liquor, 
child, that did the harm,” he said with moans and 
sobs. 

“ Yes, she told me all about it, and that you would be 
a good man if it was n’t for that,” said Paul. 

“ If I can only hear her say she forgives me,” wailed 
the wretched man. 

“ She has forgiven you,” said Paul ; “ and if you are 
too late I will give you the paper that tells all about 
it, for I wrote it down when she told me, so I would n’t 
forget.” 

The tears were streaming down Fred Myers’ cheeks, 
as he hurried along with his burden. Nearer and nearer 
they came to the light. All was wrapped in a midnight 
stillness when they reached the little settlement. There 
was no sign of life, except an occasional glimpse of a 
figure passing the window from where the lamp shone. 
And, sure enough, it was in Nell’s room, as Paul had 
thought. Somehow his heart went out in deep sym- 
pathy for Nell’s father, when he saw the tears stream- 
ing down his face, and realized his great anguish on 
hearing the sad news about his only child. 

Fred Myers began to think it must be all true; but 
how could the child know so much about his Nell? At 
first it had seemed so unreal and unnatural to meet a 
child at midnight who should tell him the sad fate of 
the little one that he was in search of. He must see 
his little Nell, his poor, little, starving child ! Ah ! the 
remorse that he had -felt while lying for weeks on a 
sick bed in a hospital no words could describe. He 
wept bitter tears while lying helpless on his back, and 
vowed that if he ever recovered he would devote the 
remainder of his life to his child, and try to make up 


3 i o The Story of a Little Poet 

in every way possible for his cruel neglect in the past. 
So the very day that he left the hospital in New York 
he started for Mill Hollow. The physician who had 
worked so hard to save his life, gave him money to 
enable him to reach his destination, having heard from 
his own lips of his new resolutions and his anxiety to 
get back to his child. He knew that he was sincere, 
and so gave him all the encouragement and help pos- 
sible. He arrived in Chicago at midnight, and in his 
eagerness to get to Mill Hollow, he started immediately 
to walk there, as he had just missed the last train on 
that branch. 


CHAPTER XX 



HEN the two midnight travellers reached the 


▼ V house, they were both too much occupied with 
anxious thoughts to speak. 

Fred Myers gave a loud knock at the door, which 
was opened almost immediately by a man in his shirt 
sleeves, who held a small lamp. Every one in this 
house was awake and up, for they all knew that Nell 
Myers was dying upstairs, and since early in the even- 
ing had kept going back and forth from Mrs. Stein’s 
room, inquiring if she had gone. 

“ You have forgotten me, I see, Jake McNally, but I 
don’t wonder at that,” said Fred Myers, as the man 
peered into the faces of the two figures at the door. 

“ Is it you, Fred Myers? ” he said, stepping back in 
astonishment. 

“ Yes, it is Fred Myers, and I have come back to 
take care of my child. Tell me, Jake, that she is not 
dying, as this child tells me,” he continued, pointing to 
Paul as they stepped in the hall. 

Jake McNally grasped his arm, and in his rough 
way tried to prepare him for the worst, while Paul 
walked past them and up the stairs, with Nero at his 
heels. 

“ How is it that child is with you at this hour? ” said 
Jake McNally, looking after the little figure. 

“ I met him on the way. I thought he was walking 


3 1 2 The Story of a Little Poet 

in his sleep. He actually frightened me, and I could n’t 
get him to go home.” 

“ Mighty strange for him to be out at this time of 
night, but he has taken care of your child for weeks, 
Fred Myers, and has brought money to Mrs. Stein to 
buy all she needed, and sent the doctor here ; but she 
was too far gone.” 

“Then it is all true, all true,” wailed poor Fred 
Myers ; “ I see it in your face that you have no good 
news.” '' 

“ Don’t be in a hurry now, just wait. She ’s not yet 
dead, but be quiet and calm yourself before you see 
her,” said Jake McNally. 

Paul met several persons coming from the sick room, 
as he slowly climbed the stairs. He was very eager to 
get there, but he felt so weak that his legs almost 
refused to carry him. They raised their hands in 
astonishment when they saw him, with a large hat in 
one hand and a doll in the other, and the long ulster 
trailing on the steps behind him. 

“ Has she gone yet?” he asked almost breathlessly. 

“ No, not yet,” they said ; “ she has been calling for 
you, and looking all around for you every time she 
opened her eyes.” 

“ Yes, I know,” said Paul, thinking of his dream, and 
that he was right, after all ; he was so glad now that he 
had come. 

When he stepped into the room, one nervous and 
superstitious woman gave a shriek. She was sure now 
that the child whom Nell Myers called the angel child 
must be indeed a spirit, to appear so suddenly at such 
an hour of the night. The room was full of curious 
women, who, filled with a morbid curiosity, had settled 


The Story of a Little Poet 313 

themselves in Mrs. Stein’s room to await the passing 
away of little Nell. They looked amazed indeed, when 
they saw Paul, with the queer-looking coat trailing on 
the floor, and the doll in his arms, and a big dog step- 
ping out in a majestic manner by his side. 

Mrs. Stein, hearing the shriek, stepped out quickly 
from the inner room while Paul was taking off the coat 
and placing it with the hat in a corner of the room. 
She, too, almost gave way to a loud exclamation when 
she saw him. He appeared not to notice it, however, 
and quietly stepping up to her said, in a low voice, “ I 
heard Nell calling me in a dream, Mrs. Stein, and so 
I thought I had better come to see her, and I brought 
her Christmas present with me. May I go in now? I 
brought her father too, and he is downstairs.” 

“ Vat you say, Fred Myers gome home mit you? ” 

“ Yes, he did, Mrs. Stein, and I guess he is coming 
up the stairs now.” 

The astonished neighbors, when they heard this, made 
for the door and stairway, Mrs. Stein following close 
behind them, all eager to see for themselves if it were 
actually as the child had said, while Paul walked alone 
into Nell’s room, still clasping the precious doll. On 
tiptoe he advanced to the bed. Two women sat by 
the bedside watching; they arose when Paul entered, 
to make way for him. They knew who he was and all 
about his visits, and what he had done for Nell. They 
had caught a glimpse of him through the open door, 
and knew what had caused the shriek. They too had 
been just as surprised, but had restrained themselves, as 
they were the solemn watchers by the death-bed. Not 
a word was spoken. Paul placed the doll down at the 
foot of the bed, then leaned over and touched one of 


314 The Story of a Little Poet 

Nell’s hands and watched the white face, which to him 
seemed lifeless; there was a slight twitching of the 
muscles in her face, showing that she still lived. 

Suddenly she opened her eyes and looked straight 
into those of Paul’s. Her gaze startled him, and he 
trembled with those strange sensations that he had so 
lately felt often. Yet he leaned over the bed, and 
Nell’s eyes opened more widely, and her lips moved, 
but there was no sound. “ I had better say something,’’ 
he thought, and bending his head still lower, he whis- 
pered, “ I have come, Nell. I came to be with you.” 

Her lips moved again, and to Paul it seemed that she 
was trying to say, Sing, and immediately he began the 
hymn she loved, in a low sweet voice, — 

“ Angels ever bright and fair, 

Take, oh, take me to thy care.” 

No one realized while he sang, what a struggle he 
was undergoing. He summoned together all the 
courage that he could muster for this last moment, and 
fighting heroically his own physical suffering, together 
with the mental anguish that this scene caused him, he 
sang all the verses of this beautiful hymn. 

The weary eyelids of the dying child drooped, and 
in a few moments the little sufferer’s body was at rest, 
her spirit taking its flight upwards. Higher and higher 
it ascended, while the earth faded away, and the light 
of the Beautiful City was before her, and it seemed as 
though she heard her angel child singing with those 
within. 

Even the two women were not aware of her flight, so 
noiselessly had she passed away, without a sigh or 
movement. The excitement of the moment kept Paul 


The Story of a Little Poet 3 1 5 

up and enabled him to finish the song. The two 
women wiped their eyes while he sang, as did those 
who now filled the doorway, attracted by his voice. 
Meanwhile Mrs. Stein, with some others, was trying to 
restrain Fred Myers from rushing excitedly into the 
room. 

“ You dare not keep me any longer,” he said, making 
desperate efforts to free himself from those who held 
him. 

“ I ’ll let you go, if you ’ll only try to be quiet,” said 
Jake McNally, finally loosening his hold. With a few 
bounds he was at the top of the stairs, and, hearing a sweet 
voice singing, he stopped suddenly and listened. He 
stood like one paralyzed, then made a rush for the 
door, while the curious neighbors made way for him. 

Paul had just finished singing, and the two watchers 
were leaning over the bed. “ She has gone,” said one, 
just as Fred Myers entered, and threw himself across 
the bed. They tried to comfort him and to draw him 
away from the still little figure, but he paid no attention 
to them whatever. “ Oh, my poor little Nell ! My poor 
little babe,” he wailed, “ won’t you tell me that you 
have forgiven me before you die? I have come to take 
care of you now always.” 

For a short time he was the centre of attraction; his 
grief was dreadful to witness, and the room was now full 
of people watching him. At this moment Paul slipped 
out, still closely followed by Nero, put on his coat and 
hurried down the stairs and out of the door. There 
was no use in his staying any longer. He felt that his 
work was done, and now he only thought of getting 
home as quickly as possible, that he might lie down 
and sleep. He heard a very queer sound in his ears, 


316 The Story of a Little Poet 

like rushing waters, and his head was throbbing more than 
ever. His mouth felt dry and parched, and occasionally 
he stooped and picked up some snow to cool it, press- 
ing it to his lips, and filling his mouth with it. He did 
not seem to feel the cold, and the snow looked very 
inviting, like a soft, downy bed. He wondered if it 
would rest him if he could lie down on it for a few 
moments, for he was very sleepy. But no ! no ! he 
forgot; he must get home before morning; for how 
dreadful if they all arose before he returned and found 
that he was not there. So with these thoughts he made 
extra exertions and strained every tired little nerve to 
its utmost. Only to get home ! Never before had he 
been so anxious to reach there, but once there he would 
lie down all the time, even if it were Christmas Day. 
He would not care for the tree and presents ; but after 
he was rested, then he would look at them, so ran his 
thoughts. 

Again he stood at the top of the hill, his legs feeling 
so heavy that he could scarcely raise them, or keep his 
tired body from tumbling in the snow. The rubber 
boots felt like leaden weights that were dragging him 
down. He stood where he had met Nell’s father, and 
gazed about him as though again expecting to meet 
another midnight traveller. Suddenly he began to 
tremble again, his legs tottered, and he was about to 
fall, when a gleam of light attracted him. It was not 
very far off, and he wondered if he could reach it, and 
find some one there to take him home, for now he 
began to realize that he would never reach there by 
himself. 

Again he started forward, keeping his eye steadily on 
the light. Then for a few seconds everything was inky 


The Story of a Little Poet 317 

black, and the light disappeared. His swaying body 
fell to the ground, and Nero, knowing that all was not 
right with his young master, barked loudly, as he stood 
over him. Then he was conscious of that rushing in 
his ears again, and that he had fallen. He did not 
realize, however, that he had actually become uncon- 
scious, only that he felt very weak. Clinging to Nero, 
he managed to rise again, and looked eagerly for the 
light. “Yes, there it is again, and I do believe it is in 
Dr. Barlow’s window,” he thought. “ If I could only get 
to him, he would help me.” All sorts of strange fancies 
filled his brain, yet above them all arose that one de- 
sire, to get to the light. He never would have reached 
it, had it not been for Nero’s assistance, for he had 
thrown himself across his back, and placed his arms 
around his neck, while he carried him. 

“ I ’m here, dear old Nero,” he said, when they 
reached Dr. Barlow’s gate, and immediately he turned in 
while Paul guided him, until they stood under the light 
that shone from a second-story window. Paul tried to call, 
but so faint was his voice that it was impossible for any 
one to hear him. Nero, seeming to realize the situa- 
tion, barked again and again, while Paul lay in the snow 
and moaned. 

The doctor had just returned from a midnight call, 
and was about to retire for the second time when he 
heard the barking. He knew that it was not either of 
his dogs, and as it was close to his house, he thought 
that he would raise the window and look out. Taking 
up a lamp from a table, he held it out as far as he 
could, and Nero barked louder than ever when he saw 
him. Dr. Barlow recognized the dog, for there was not 
another like it in Avondale, and he also saw a black heap 


3 1 8 The Story of a Little Poet 

close beside him. “ It must be some one from Arling- 
ton’s,” thought the doctor, “who has come for me, 
and is perhaps overcome with the cold.” He called his 
wife, and they hastily dressed and started for the door, 
while Nero continued to bark incessantly. When they 
reached the little heap and threw the light of the lamp 
upon it, they were horror-stricken to see lying before 
them little Paul Arlington, unconscious of all his sur- 
roundings. It did not take long to get him into the 
house and lay him on the couch in the doctor’s office, 
where all was done that was possible to bring him 
to life again. 

The doctor finally came to the conclusion that he 
had been delirious and had walked out unconsciously, 
and of course they could not know anything of his 
absence at home. 

Old Ned, his colored coachman, was called up and 
sent to the little house in the oaks to take them the 
dreadful news, just at the dawn of the Christmas Day. 

“ I am not surprised that the child is ill,” said Dr. 
Barlow to his wife. “ He has been under a great 
nervous strain about that poor little child in Mill 
Hollow, and I often wondered that his Aunt Helen 
allowed him to go there so frequently. She was 
certainly very kind to her and very generous, sending 
money with Paul every week, as I told you. 

“ He will not be able to be moved my dear,” he 
continued; “I shall insist upon his staying here. He 
is entirely too ill to be moved ; and if you will get the 
room ready adjoining ours, I will carry him upstairs, 
for a bed would be much more comfortable for him.” 

It did not take long for Mrs. Barlow to have every- 
thing in readiness in a pleasant sunny room. 


The Story of a Little Poet 3 1 9 

“Don’t forget to tell them that he is safe, and all 
is being done for him that is in my power,” said the 
doctor to Ned as he left on his sad errand. He shook 
his woolly head and muttered to himself as he made 
rapid strides to Paul’s home. He was sorry to be the 
one called upon to startle the family with the news that 
one of their little ones had wandered away in the night 
unknown to them, and was perhaps now at the point of 
death for all that old Ned knew. 

“ I ’se awful shaky ’bout dis bisness, suah enuf,” he 
said to himself, when he arrived at the gate. “ De 
Lawd knows dis here family is gwine ter be drefful 
’sprised, an’ old Ned has ter tell ’em ’bout de bressed 
boy wid yaller curls and blue eyes, who lay so misabel 
dis berry minute de Lawd only knows ef any bref is lef 
in his body. 

“ Dar now, I ’se gwine ter do it, fo’ ole Ned must ’bey 
oders.” 

He rang the bell, then listened eagerly for coming 
footsteps, but he heard no sign of life; then he rang 
again, and knocked and shook the door. Then a 
window was raised, and Aunt Helen called out to 
the figure who stepped off the porch that he might 
be seen, “What is the matter?” 

“ I’se sorry toe bring yer de mo’ful news dish Christ- 
mas marnin’ from Marse Barlow, miss, but de bressed 
chile wid de yaller curls was foun’ by de do’ in de snow,” 
he said. 

Aunt Helen felt as though her heart had stopped 
beating while she listened to Dr. Barlow’s coachman, 
whom she readily recognized by his voice and the out- 
line of his figure in the gray dawn. But she laughed 
at herself for her foolish fears. The man has made 


320 The Story of a Little Poet 

a mistake, that is certain; it must be some other 
child. 

“ You must be mistaken,” she called. “ It cannot be 
any of our children, for I saw them myself safely in bed.” 

“ Marse Barlow say dat de chile come out in de 
night caze of de fever dat burned in his head. It ’s de 
bressed boy dat lives in dis yere house, miss. I ’se 
know de lil feller. I ’se sholy am sorry toe bring you 
de news ’bout him.” 

While he still talked, Aunt Helen had left the win- 
dow, and, hastily making a light, looked toward the 
bed, and, sure enough, it was empty. For a moment 
she became frantic and lost control of herself com- 
pletely. She stood wringing her hands in the hall and 
calling for Hulda with all the strength she could gather. 
Then like a flash she slipped on a gown and ran down 
the stairs to open the door, crying hysterically. 

The old negro was greatly affected when he saw 
her grief, and made an effort to make things as light 
as possible as he stepped in the hall. 

“ Dar now, jes calm yo’self, miss, de chile am not so 
bad. He’s gwine to git ’bout again, I ’se suah.” 

“ He must have had a raging fever to get up and go 
out in the night,” sobbed Aunt Helen, “ and to think 
that I never heard him. I did not realize he was so 
ill ; in fact, I thought he had only over-exerted himself 
and taken a little cold. I will never forgive myself, 
never ! If you will wait a moment, I will go back with 
you,” she said. 

By this time Hulda had slipped on some clothes and 
joined them in the hall, where the whole story was 
repeated again by Ned, while Aunt Helen hastily pre- 
pared to take her departure. 


The Story of a Little Poet 321 

Two little figures in their night dresses were leaning 
over the banisters, wondering what all the confusion 
was about; and when Aunt Helen clasped them both in 
her arms at the head of the stairs with tears in her eyes, 
and told them that their brother had left the house in 
the night and was found lying in the snow by Dr. Bar- 
low’s house, they were indeed shocked, and for a time 
forgot that it was Christmas morning, and that the tree 
and gifts were waiting for them. 

“And was he unconscious, did you say?” asked 
Aunt Helen, as she and Ned hurried along the road. 

“ I ’se suah he was fo’ a time, miss, but Marse Barlow 
fix him all right, depen’ on dat ; but de Lawd is heah fo’ 
to stretch out His han’ dis berry minute ; tek hoi, an’ de 
angel ob peace will come ter yo’ heart ter help suppo’t 
yo’,” said old Ned, in a quavering voice. 

Mrs. Barlow, who was watching at the window, ran to 
the door to greet her. 

“ This seems like some dreadful nightmare to me, 
Mrs. Barlow,” said Aunt Helen, while the tears started 
afresh. “ I cannot realize that it is so. I knew nothing 
whatever of his going out, and left him safely sleeping 
in his bed when I retired. Oh, what will his parents 
think of me when they hear of it ! I should have sent 
for the doctor two days ago, but I know so little about 
sickness, and had not the least idea that there was any- 
thing serious the matter with him.” 

“ Calm yourself, Miss Wesley, for it will never do for 
you to give way in this manner,” said Mrs. Barlow, 
placing her arm around her trembling form, and leading 
her into the library, where a bright fire burned in the 
grate ; then placing her in a comfortable chair, told her 
she must be more composed before she went up to see 

21 


322 The Story of a Little Poet 

Paul, as the least excitement might cause him to pass 
into a faint, and the doctor had just succeeded in re- 
storing his consciousness. She insisted on her taking 
a hot drink, then tried in every possible way to console 
and comfort her, waiting until she was able to control 
herself sufficiently to enter the sick room. 

“ You are all very kind,” said Aunt Helen, “ and I 
am thankful at least that he happened to fall into such 
good hands ; but when does the doctor think he can be 
taken home? ” 

“Why, not at present, Miss Wesley; it would not be 
safe to risk it,” she said, “ and we should be only too 
glad to have him stay just where he is. If you are will- 
ing, I will help you nurse him. The doctor has taken 
a great fancy to the little fellow, and I know will give 
him the most watchful care.” 

“ But what a trouble it will be giving you ! ” said 
Aunt Helen, ready almost to fall at her feet in gratitude 
for her encouraging words and kind offer. 

“ I assure you that it will be no trouble to us what- 
ever; on the other hand, it will be a great pleasure to 
help you all that I can. I realize your position thor- 
oughly, with the child’s parents away and the responsi- 
bility all on your shoulders; but do not look upon the 
dark side, and if there is anything in nursing, we will 
have him well again before very long, I am sure.” 

With swollen eyes but steadier nerves, Aunt Helen, 
accompanied by Mrs. Barlow, entered the sick room. 

The doctor rose from the bedside and shook her 
hand as she approached, speaking a few encouraging 
words in a low tone. Paul was lying quite still, only 
now and then opening his eyes and looking about in a 
puzzled manner. Aunt Helen was shocked when she 


The Story of a Little Poet 323 

saw the sad change wrought in the face of her little 
nephew, and wondered how she could have been so 
blind as not to see that he had been very ill for some 
time. 

In a few moments the doctor and she went into an 
adjoining room, and he repeated what his wife had 
already told her, that it would never do to run the risk 
of moving him. He was not positive of the nature of 
his illness, but there were indications of typhoid. He 
assured her that everything would be done that was 
possible for him. “ I think the little fellow has been 
under a great strain about that beggar child down in 
Mill Hollow,” he said. 

“ Yes, I think that he has thought a great deal about 
her. He had a doll purchased for her for a Christmas 
gift, and has been trying to persuade me to let him take 
it to her; but I told him that I did not think he would 
be well enough; besides, I do not like the idea of his 
going down among those hovels.” 

“You surely were aware that he has been making 
almost daily visits there, and taking money for this 
child, were you not?” asked the doctor. 

“ What ! Our little Paul taking money to Mill Hol- 
low, and making daily visits there, did you say?” ex- 
claimed Aunt Helen, in surprise. 

“ Yes, I am quite sure he has,” replied the doctor, 
“ and I often wondered that you did not object to it, 
and send the money by some one else.” 

“ I have never sent one penny to the child,” con- 
tinued Aunt Helen, in great excitement. “ Are you sure 
you are not mistaken, Doctor? Where could he have 
gotten any money?” 

“That, then, is a mystery, if it did not come from you, 


324 The Story of a Little Poet 

as I had always imagined,” said the doctor. “ He came 
to see me about the child, and told me her whole his- 
tory; and also that he went to see her nearly every 
day. Mrs. Stein also told me of his visits, and the 
money he brought regularly, and how kind his people 
were to send it.” 

Aunt Helen buried her face in her hands and wept. 
It all dawned upon her now, and she was not surprised 
at his illness, if this was the strain that he had been 
under all those weeks. 

What affected her the most was the thought that she 
alone was to blame for it all; for if she had interested 
herself a little in the beggar girl, it would have pleased 
him, and he would have confided in her, and this dread- 
ful affair would never have happened. 

“ I never imagined that he was in Mill Hollow more 
than two or three times,” sobbed Aunt Helen. “ Know- 
ing that I did not sympathize with him in his notions 
about the poor, I suppose he refrained from telling 
me all that he was doing. But the money, — I cannot 
account for that. I never gave him a cent, as I said, 
to take to Mrs. Stein ; and I cannot imagine how he 
obtained it, unless he asked people for it.” 

“ There is still a great mystery about it all,” said 
Dr. Barlow, “ and I shall try to unravel it. Of one 
thing at least, I am sure, that the strain he has been 
under in watching this dying child from day to day 
and looking after her wants is the cause of this illness. 

“ The child died in the night,” continued the doctor. 
“ I received word early this morning.” 

Soon Aunt Helen was on her way home to make 
preparations to leave it indefinitely to take care of Paul. 

“You will have to get along the best you can with 


The Story of a Little Poet 325 

the two children,” she said to Hulda. “There is no 
alternative but for me to be with Paul, as they advise 
me not to move him. 

“ I will run over whenever I can. Watch the children 
closely that they do not take cold. In the mean time 
I will inquire at the doctor’s for some one to come in 
and help you ; so that you can devote most of your 
time to them. 

“ If Paul only recovers, that is all I desire now on 
earth,” she continued, as she stood in the hall, ready to 
leave for the doctor’s house again. 

“ I don’t like iss Trismas Day one sin’le bit,” said 
Grace, her eyes filled with tears.. 

“ Poor little dear, it is a very sad Christmas for us 
all,” said Aunt Helen, kissing her good-by; “but try 
to be good and amuse yourselves with all the pretty 
toys you have upstairs, and may be Brother Paul will 
come back well and strong in a few weeks.” 

“ Tell the Persefifer I am awful sorry he ’s sick, and 
that I ’ll save all his Christmas presents for him, and 
won’t let anybody touch them,” called Roy from the 
door, as Aunt Helen stepped from the porch with a sad 
face and aching heart. 

“ I will tell him, Roy, when he is able to talk,” she 
called back. 


CHAPTER XXI 


R OY and Grace both felt very lonely and sad on 
Christmas Day. It was dreadful to think of 
Brother Paul in another house very ill, and Aunt 
Helen gone to take care of him. Their father and 
mother were so far away, too. True, there was the 
Christmas room, and the various gifts they had sent 
from France, and the long, loving Christmas letters 
that had come with them, but it was not the same as 
when they were present. 

Occasionally they did forget for a short time all 
their sadness, as they became interested in the attrac- 
tions of the Christmas room, and played with their 
new toys and games, and examined the pretty bright 
things that hung on the tree; then again their faces 
would grow quite serious, and they would sit side by 
side under the tree on two small wicker chairs, that 
were also gifts, and talk about Paul having been found 
in the snow by the doctor’s house in the night, and 
wonder what made him go out at such a time, even if 
he were ill. 

In the evening, after they had eaten their supper, 
Hulda lit the gas in the Christmas room and told them 
to be good and amuse themselves until she washed the 
dishes; then she would come up and put them to bed. 

It seemed lonelier and more solemn than ever in the 
house now that night had come, and no one with them 



• -» 



The Story of a Little Poet 327 

but Hulda; and she looked so sorrowful and was wip- 
ing her eyes nearly all the time, they could not find 
much comfort in talking to her. 

They sat down under the tree again, as they had 
done so often during the day when they felt too sad 
to play. Grace was looking away off into space, rock- 
ing slowly back and forth in her Christmas gift, busily 
thinking. Then tears came to her eyes, and she said, 
“I ’m awsul sorry Bruver Paul is sick, and I tan’t see 
him, and Farver and Murver are ever so far away, 
too.” 

Roy felt very queer when he saw the tears, and he 
came very near crying himself. Nothing had ever 
happened in his life before that made him so quiet and 
serious as all the sad circumstances connected with 
this Christmas Day. He swallowed a lump once or 
twice that filled his throat, then in his light-hearted 
way said, “Oh, well, never mind; he ’ll get well soon. 
Lots and lots of people in the world get awful sick and 
they get well again.” 

“’Es, but ’ots and ’ots of peoples dies, too,” said 
Grace, mournfully, the tears dropping one by one off 
her cheek. 

Roy drew his chair up closer, and felt he must do or 
say something to make things look brighter for Grace; 
for if there was anything that he disliked, it was to see 
any one cry. “I know lots of people die, too, Grace,” 
he said, after a pause; “but then, you know, they don't 
die with the kind of sickness Paul has.” 

“Oh, don’t ’ey?” said Grace, her face brightening 
up immediately at those encouraging words. “Is it 
only er.’ittle sitness ’ike er chitten-pox I had one 


328 The Story of a Little Poet 

“No, not like that erzackly,” replied Roy, speaking 
very slowly, so as to be sure of saying the right thing 
and make baby Grace’s tears disappear altogether. 
“It’s a sickness, you know, that little boys get who 
write poetries, and hunt beggars and organ-grinders 
all the time. I had it just a tweenty bit once when I 
made poetry verses, and it was an awful pain right in 
my head; and when you make lots of them, besides 
worry about all the poor people in the world, why, it 
makes your brain all wibbly wobbly; and Hulda said 
that is the matter with the Perseffer, — his brains are 
all wobbling in his head.” 

“An’ don’t anybodies die when ’ey have a sitness 
wiv er brains wobblin’ ? ” 

“ No,” drawled Roy, as though the very idea of such 
a thing was ridiculous and unheard of. 

“Baby Martin didn’t die wiv her brains wobblin’, 
did she?” 

“No,” again drawled Roy. “She was too little to 
have that kind of sickness, because she didn’t know 
even what a beggar was. She died with Amonia, 
Mother said. It ’s a dreadful disease, Amonia is. 
Your lungs, what you breathe with, you know, get all 
squashed up to pieces more and more every minute, 
until, scoop! comes your last breath, and your lungs 
go to smithers, and you ’re dead. Then there ’s nervous 
posteration; that is a dreadful sickness, too; your 
nerves all posterate, you know, and it makes you 
cross and grumpy and laugh at peoples’ klection of 
curosties.” 

“Do ’ey?” said Grace, growing more and more 
interested in Roy’s great knowledge of all the ills the 
human flesh is heir to, and greatly relieved to know 


The Story of a Little Poet 329 

that Paul’s sickness was one that would not end in 
death. 

“ Yes, they do,” continued Roy. “ And then there ’s 
small-pox; that is the most awfulest sickness of all. 
Your whole body, from the top of your head to your 
toes, is covered with poxes and — ” 

“What are poxes ’ike? ” interrupted Grace. 

“Oh! they are like awful sores that make big holes 
in you. I saw a man once who had it, but he was 
well, only the little holes were still on his face, and 
they will never go away.” 

Grace shuddered at the description of this dreadful 
sickness. 

“Then there’s measels, what we had, and mumps, 
and stomach-aches, backaches, and all sorts of ’tagious 
things. Then there ’s a whole lot of little sicknesses, — 
like cuts, burns, bruises, corns, and colds, you know.” 

“ My dacious ! ” said Grace, with a long-drawn sigh, 
“ er must be an awsul lot of fings to make peoples sick, 
must n’t ’ey? ” 

“Yes, lots,” replied Roy. 

“ Now which one do you call Bruver Paul’s sitness ? ” 

“ Oh, I guess you would call his ‘ fever of the 
brain,’ because Hulda said it all happened because 
he worried it too much. The Perseffer said our brains 
are like little worms, all lying together in the top of 
our heads, under our hair.” 

Grace raised her hand quickly to the top of her head, 
as though she expected to feel them. That made Roy 
laugh, then Grace laughed, too, quite heartily, and 
Roy said, “Not outside your head. You can’t feel 
them ; they are inside, under the skin. And just 
think,” he went on, “they make us think and move, 


330 The Story of a Little Poet 


and tell us where to go when we want to go anywhere, 
and when to come back when we want to get home. 
The Perseffer said the brain is the most wonderful 
part of our whole seifs, so you see he tired his out 
worrying too much.” 

“ I dess he dot it tired wiv ’ose dreat big thoughts, 
didn’t he?” 

“Yes, that was it; and all he has to do now is to 
get it rested again, then he will be well and come 
home.” 

“An’ ’en we will have our Trismas over adain, 
won’t we ? ” 


“Yes, we ’ll have jolly times when the Perseffer gets 
back, and we won’t let him make up any more poetries, 
will we? ” 

“No, we won’t; or doe to see any orden-drinders, or 
’ ittle beggar chillens.” 

“No, we won’t; we ’ll just watch him all the time.” 

“ But when he drows up to be a dreat big man, den 
he tan, tan’t he? ’tause when I get a big lady, I ’m 
dawn wiv him to find all er poor ’ittle dirls and boys 
who has n’t anyfing to eat. When we drow big den 
our brains won’t wobble, will ’ey?” 

“No, not then; only when little children worry 
about all the poor people in the world.” 

Roy held in his hand all this time a letter he had 
written to his grandmother the day before, and which 
his aunt had forgotten to post. “Hulda said she 
would put a stamp on this when she comes up,” he 
said, “ and to-morrow I will put it in the box. Shall 
I read it to you ? ” 

“’Es, read it to me,” said Grace, setfling herself 
back to listen, while Roy began: — 


The Story of a Little Poet 331 

My dear Grandma, — How are you. i am rite well i 
thank you. the perseffor is a little sick, Aunt Helen says he 
has a cold and is tired, he dont feel like talken mutch the 
other day they wer a large house on fire and we all went down 
after it was birnt to look at it the house all tumbeled down and 
we had a dazy picknick A big store cort fire from it but the 
firemen put it out i was sorry i dident see that birn to we are 
having lots of fun here sintz you. went away the boys are all 
bilding houses in there back yards and they make tin rufes out 
of the tin from the birnt house, tell farther and mother why 
they dont rite me more letters tell them i am klecting wings of 
birds now and if you see any birds i havent, shoot them and 
bring me there wings these are all the ones i have a rusters wing 
a hens wing a fesants tale and wing a ducks wing a partrage tale 
a robins wing a kernary wing a blackbirds wing and a hole 
crowd of yallow hammer feathers and pack of piggons wings 
and a pile of sparrow wings i had better say goodbye now. 
from your remaining grandson, 

Roy. 

“ I wish I tood yite er nice petty letter ’ike ’at,” said 
Grace, looking at Roy quite enviously. 

“Do you? Well, it ’s easy when you get the start. 
When I was little I thought it was hard too, but now I 
can write them just as fast as the Persefifer,” said Roy, 
with a very proud air, as he folded and replaced the 
letter in the envelope. 

“Come, children, I have your beds ready, and am 
waiting to undress you,” called Hulda. Then they 
arose, and hand in hand walked out of the room and 
across the hall. Roy leaned over and whispered once, 
“Will you do me a favorite [favor], Grace?” 

“’Es, I will do er favert for you,” she answered 
sweetly. 

And again he leaned over and whispered, “Why, 


332 The Story of a Little Poet 

promise me you won’t cry any more about the 
Perseffer. ” 

“If a fever of er brain sitness won’t make him die, 
’en I won’t cry a sin’le bit.” 

“I know he won’t die; he could n’t, you know, with 
that sickness, ’cause he only has to get rested.” 

“It ’s an awsul lonesome night, is n’t it? and that ’s 
why the reason I don’t want to go to bed,” said Grace. 

“Oh! well, we won’t mind. After awhile we ’ll be 
sound asleep and won’t know anything about it. And 
to-morrow Hulda is going to take us over to see 
how the Perseffer is, and then we ’re going to see 
‘ Cinderella. ’ ” 

“Oh! I forgot it was Cin’erella day,” said Grace, 
her face wreathed in smiles. 

Christmas Day was also a very sad one at Dr. Bar- 
low’s, and those who anxiously watched by the bedside 
of little Paul Arlington knew none of its pleasures. 
Dr. Barlow found out a great deal when he called at 
Mrs. Stein’s. She had not sent for him when Nell 
was dying, for he had told her she might pass away 
any moment, and so she was prepared, and knew noth- 
ing more could be done for her. He was first of all 
surprised to learn that the child’s father had returned 
just as she passed away. Fred Myers was still sitting 
by the side of her body when Dr. Barlow was ushered 
in, and, seeing the poor man bowed in grief, he tried to 
speak a few cheery words to him. 

“I regret very much that I was not able to save 
your child, but she was too far gone when I was called 
in for any treatment to have effect,” he said. 

“Oh, my poor baby! my poor baby!” moaned Fred 
Myers, rocking to and fro. 


The Story of a Little Poet 333 

“The only thing left to do now, young man, if you 
had any love for your little one, is to try to live a 
different life from this day on. She always spoke of 
you in the most affectionate manner, and loved you to 
the last, notwithstanding that you cast her adrift on 
the world. Could she speak now, I am sure that 
would be her desire. Come, arouse yourself, and do 
not be despondent. I, for one, will be your friend and 
lend you a helping hand if you make the effort.” 

“Thank you, sir! Oh, thank you, sir!” said poor 
Fred Myers. “ I will try for her sake to redeem my- 
self,” reaching out his trembling hand, which the 
doctor shook with a warm grasp. 

“ I want you to help me unravel a mystery,” said Dr. 
Barlow, “which I know will interest you as well as 
me. I suppose you have heard about the little fellow 
who has been looking after your child, and who sent 
her this bed and mattress, and also money every week 
to buy all she needed? ” 

“Yes, I have heard all about him,” replied Fred 
Myers, wiping away the tears and raising his head. 
“And it makes me feel more ashamed than ever, to 
think of a little child doing what a father should have 
done. I ’ll never forget him last night when I met 
him on the hill.” 

“What!” exclaimed Dr. Barlow, “met him on the 
hill? What time in the night was it?” 

Then Fred Myers told the whole story of his coming 
home, the strange little figure he saw, standing by a 
dog, with a doll for his child, and all that happened 
afterwards. 

Dr. Barlow listened eagerly to the story, while tears 
filled his eyes which it was impossible to keep back. 


334 The Story of a Little Poet 

He brushed them away, and neither spoke until Fred 
Myers had finished his pathetic tale. 

Then Dr. Barlow related to Fred Myers the termina- 
tion of little Paul’s midnight visit, and Fred Myers 
began to weep afresh. 

“ Of course, I could not have expected you to think 
of it at such a moment, but I only wish that Mrs. 
Stein or some one else had seen that he returned 
home safely last night. His nerves must have under- 
gone a dreadful strain, and it is doubtful whether I 
can pull him through.” 

“If it had n’t been for him startling me so by tell- 
ing me my child was dying, I would immediately have 
taken him home. I did try to persuade him to go. 
He promised that as soon as he saw Nell he would go 
straight back. I did not know that he was ill, and 
yet I might have known, too, that no child in his right 
senses would start out at midnight on such an errand. 
He told me that he had a message for me, and that if 
I was too late to hear it from Nell he would give it 
to me, as he had it on paper; so I will be obliged to 
you, sir, if you would think sometime to look in his 
pockets for it.” 

“I will, the first opportunity,” said the doctor. 
“And now I must hurry, for every spare moment I 
want to spend with my little patient.” 

“I feel so drawn to the child that if he were my 
very own I do not think I could be more anxious.” 

“ Come down to my office whenever you can, and 
whatever help you need, let me know. Also give me 
any information you can as to how Paul obtained the 
money with which he paid Nell’s board.” 

“I will, sir; I will do all that I can for you and the 


The Story of a Little Poet 335 

little angel who was so good to my neglected child,” 
said Fred Myers. 

When Dr. Barlow returned from Mill Hollow, he 
did not mention to Aunt Helen the news that he had 
just heard. He thought that she had borne quite 
enough for one day. 

For six weeks, night and day, they anxiously watched 
and waited before Paul was pronounced out of danger; 
to Aunt Helen these weeks seemed like six years. 
She gained one thing, however, during this terrible 
experience, and that was, a perfect understanding of 
her little nephew. Her eyes were opened as though a 
cloud had been lifted from them, and she saw him in a 
different light altogether. She had many talks with 
the doctor and his wife about him, and felt ashamed 
that she should have been so slow in reading and ap- 
preciating the child’s character, when these two, on 
such a short acquaintance, seemed to have read it like 
an open page. “The first time he called on me and 
told me of poor little Nell, I was never so thoroughly 
interested in my life,” said Dr. Barlow, “and he won 
my heart on the spot. Such a delicate and refined 
nature as his is rarely met with, and not always appre- 
ciated, I am sorry to say.” 

“You are right, Doctor, it is not; and I acknowledge 
that I have never been able to see him as you do until 
now,” said Aunt Helen, with tears in her eyes. 

The old family physician from Arlington Heights 
came to Avondale several times to consult with Dr. 
Barlow. Sometimes it appeared that Paul was beyond 
all human aid, when suddenly he would rally again; 
and so it went on for weeks. One day everything 
looked encouraging, then again it seemed as if he could 


336 The Story of a Little Poet 

not possibly live. Dr. Barlow was right, — the fever 
developed into typhoid. That was bad enough, but it 
might have been worse, as for a few days they feared 
it would be complicated with some brain trouble. Roy 
was not so far out of the way, after all, when he called 
his brother’s sickness a fever of the brain. All through 
his delirium Paul talked of Nell. 

“I must take care of her,” he would say, “for there 
is no one else in the world to feed her but me. Her 
mother is dead, and her father left her without one 
penny, and poor Mrs. Stein hasn’t enough bread for 
her own children, so, of course, she can’t feed Nell. 
Hark! I hear her calling. She is watching for me. 
Let me go, Aunt Helen, for Mother would if she was 
here ! ” And often, while thus talking, he would have 
jumped from the bed, had it not been that some one 
was always present to hold him, and try to soothe 
him. 

Once he said, “ I knew Aunt Helen would not like 
to see the books, so I won’t show them to her. Mother 
would. Oh, why won’t she love the poor? ” he would 
scream excitedly, often looking up in his aunt’s face 
while he talked, yet not seeming to recognize her. 

One time it took two to hold him when he imagined 
it was the night before Christmas. “You must let me 
go, for she is dying ! ” he shrieked. 

Often at such times Dr. Barlow’s voice quieted him 
when nothing else would. He seemed to be under the 
impression that he was Dr. Andrews, and he said once, 
“You have come to help me look after Nell, and all 
the poor in Mill Hollow, have n’t you? ” 

“Yes, I have come to help you,” Dr. Barlow would 
say, “so you need not worry any more.” 


The Story of a Little Poet 337 

“But when I get rested, then I will help you, — 
after I sleep about a week.” 

“ Oh, yes, you can then ; but try to go to sleep now, 
or you won’t be able to,” he would say; and Paul 
would close his eyes, and somehow he felt satisfied 
that all was right, and fell asleep with his hand in Dr. 
Barlow’s. 

The story of Paul Arlington and Nell Myers had 
spread from one to another until every household in 
Avondale and its vicinity was talking about it. Prayers 
were offered regularly for his safe recovery in the little 
church where Paul had worshipped and where he had 
found poor little Nell, and so many called daily at the 
doctor’s house to know the latest news concerning his 
illness, that it was necessary to place a card on the 
door stating his condition. 

Fred Myers assisted Dr. Barlow in finding out all 
that was possible after his child was buried. 

“Don’t you know the man’s name who brought the 
mattress ? ” he asked Mrs. Stein one day. 

“Der man’s name vos on der wagon, but I can’t 
t’ink of it,” she said. 

“ If I could find that out I might be able to learn 
something from him,” said Fred Myers. 

“I t’ink maybe der childer might know who vos 
downstairs ven he gomes in,” said Mrs. Stein. 

“I have it,” suddenly spoke up Fred Myers. “I 
will go from house to house and ask if any one saw the 
wagon when it came, and if they remembered the name 
on it;” and without waiting another minute, he was 
off to make inquiries. He did not go very far, in fact, 
not even out of the house, for Mrs. Carter, of the first 
floor, remembered the day well. She saw the wagon 

22 


338 The Story of a Little Poet 

stop in front of the house, and saw the bed carried in, 
and also remembered the name she read on the side of 
the wagon, “William Harvey, Furniture.” 

That very day Fred Myers went to Chicago to hunt 
up William Harvey’s store, which he found without 
much trouble; and before he came out of it, he had 
unravelled the whole mystery, and obtained a book of 
poems which Mr. Harvey loaned him to show to the 
faithful and anxious watchers at the bedside of little 
Paul. 


CHAPTER XXII 


T HEY now knew just what little Paul had been 
doing for weeks past. It was now not a difficult 
thing to understand the entire cause of his illness. 

Aunt Helen went off into a room alone to read the 
little book of poems, for Paul Arlington’s sweet nature 
was gradually unfolding itself before his young aunt’s 
eyes, until now she only wondered how it was that she 
could ever have misunderstood him. 

“Dear little fellow, how well it is done!” she 
thought, as she first examined the cover with the forget- 
me-nots painted in blue, and the silk cord to match, 
which tied the pages together in such a dainty manner. 
Then she started to read the first poem of little Nell. 
The tears came afresh after each poem was read. She 
remembered seeing some of them before, but knew 
that the one regarding little Nell was new. She leaned 
back in the chair and thought of all the planning the 
child had done to get up such a book, and to compose 
the poem about the beggar child, and she readily imag- 
ined the great strain to his sensitive nature in visiting 
Nell in her dying condition. Then the effort which 
it must have been to sell the books; it only surprised 
her that he had not succumbed to the strain long 
before. “If I had only insisted on his telling me 
what he was painting,” she thought; “but how did I 
know? I never dreamed it could be anything but 


340 The Story of a Little Poet 

some little Christmas cards he was getting up. But 
it is no time now for tears; if he only lives, that is all 
I ask;” and, bathing her face in cold water, she took 
her place by the little invalid again. 

If his parents had walked in during his illness, they 
would never have known their boy, so great was the 
change in him. His face looked old and emaciated, 
and his hair was cut close to his head. “The weight 
was too much for him,” Dr. Barlow had said, “and his 
head must be made as cool as possible; ” so he cut it 
himself, and laid the thick golden locks carefully in a 
box, to be put away and saved. 

Old Ned, the doctor’s coachman, was very sad all 
through Paul’s illness. He had taken a great fancy to 
him, for Paul had always spoken as pleasantly to him 
as he did to Dr. Barlow whenever he saw him on the 
street. To have Paul in his master’s house so ill 
made him feel as though he were one of the family 
and belonged to them. Every day he was asked re- 
peatedly, by nearly every one he met, whether the little 
boy whom they found at midnight by their door was 
improving. 

His last duty before retiring for the night was to 
walk up on tiptoe to the sick chamber, and ask his 
master how the patient was. 

“Ole Ned jes cum up, sah, ter heah ’bout de little 
chile,” he would say; “caze I can’t shet me eyes 
nohow befo’ mawnin’ till I ’se know. It ’pears like 
I’se knowed him mos’ all me life, sah; doan yo’ think 
his gwine ter pull through dish yer fever.” 

“ I am hoping so, Ned, and I am doing my best to 
save him,” Dr. Barlow would say. 

“ Yaas, I ’se t’ink yo’ are, sah. The Lawd has sholy 


The Story of a Little Poet 341 

sent him ter yo’self ter tek keer o’ him, and ain’ that 
de sign His gwine ter guide yo’ wif His pow’ful han’ ? 
Hit ’pears dat way ter me, sah.” 

“ Perhaps you are right,” the doctor said. “ So far I 
have every reason to believe it is so.” 

“ Thank de Lawd ! Thank de Lawd ! ” murmured 
Ned to himself, as he slowly descended the stairs, shak- 
ing his white woolly head. 

Dr. Andrews had made several visits to Avondale 
during Paul’s illness, and after several consultations 
with Dr. Barlow and Aunt Helen, they decided not to 
acquaint his parents with the seriousness of it. They 
knew that if they had any knowledge of it they would 
return immediately, and nothing could be worse for 
Mr. Arlington than to return then, it being the very 
worst season of the year. All the letters had spoken 
encouragingly of his condition, telling of his steady 
improvement, and the hope that by spring he would be 
entirely restored to health. To send them the news 
that their oldest child was very ill, and might not live, 
would most likely give Mr. Arlington a relapse, and 
only make matters worse instead of better; so they 
decided to keep them ignorant of his condition until 
they knew at least beyond a doubt that he could not 
live. 

Dr. Andrews never went into the sick room on these 
visits. It was thought best to keep him out; for Paul 
was under the impression that Dr. Barlow was Dr. 
Andrews, and to see the two might confuse and excite 
him. They would not even have a trained nurse for 
this very reason. Dr. Barlow wanted as few as pos- 
sible in the sick room, and that Paul should see only 
the faces he had been accustomed to from the time he 


342 The Story of a Little Poet 

was taken ill. Mrs. Barlow was a born nurse; and 
under her supervision and the doctor’s, Aunt Helen did 
nearly as well. Her whole heart was in it, and it was 
wonderful how apt she became for one who never had 
been accustomed to sickness. Every day, at his earn- 
est request, they sent a telegram to Dr. Andrews. 
He had been engaged in some new work among the 
poor since Paul left Arlington Heights, which he 
intended as a surprise for him. He had started a mis- 
sion in the house where Irish Moll was found. It had 
all been renovated, and reading-rooms and amusements 
were established there to keep the children from the 
streets at night. Food also was given out to those in 
need of it, and meetings were held twice a week, at 
which Dr. Andrews or some other minister spoke to 
the children and tried to teach them to live better 
lives. Many of them remembered Paul, and would 
never forget the day that they saw him with Irish 
Moll. Dr. Andrews had also hunted up Bill Jones, of 
whom Paul had spoken frequently; and Bill was now 
assistant janitor of the mission-house, attending to the 
fires, cleaning windows, running errands, etc. He 
knew it was all brought about by the little fellow who 
had spoken to him so kindly that day, for so Dr. 
Andrews had told him; and when Paul was ill, all the 
children were told of it at the meetings, and those 
who had seen him felt very sad indeed when they heard 
it, and looked eagerly for Dr. Andrews’ coming on his 
visiting days, to learn the latest news regarding him. 

“ Say, boss, how ’s that air little feller gettin’ long ? ” 
asked Bill Jones. “I’m tryin’ me best ter keep 
straight and earn an honest penny for me old mother, 
all owin’ to him, boss.” 


The Story of a Little Poet 343 

“ I guess he is going to pull through,” said Dr. 
Andrews. “And how glad he will be when he gets 
well to hear what a good steady boy you are!” 

“If I ’m stiddy, it ’s all owin’ to him; and you tell 
him when yer see him, will yer, boss?” 

“I certainly will as soon as he is well enough,” 
said Dr. Andrews. 

By the time Paul was able to sit up, the story had 
spread all over Chicago, and found its way into the 
papers. Many people were inquiring for the little 
book of poems. Several went into Young’s store and 
asked if they had any copies for sale, for they remem- 
bered hearing Paul say on the street, as he handed his 
books to pedestrians, that they were made just like 
some that they sold at Young’s store, only the poetry 
was different. The clerks told all that they knew of 
the little fellow, Paul’s reason for wanting one of the 
little books being clear to them now. It was simply 
that he desired one as a sample to make his own by. 
“I would not mind having several hundred of them,” 
said Mr. Young. “ I could easily find a sale for them. ” 

When Dr. Andrews heard all this, and saw the arti- 
cle in the paper, which Aunt Helen had sent on, and 
how anxious people were to get even a copy of the 
little book, he went immediately to Chicago and saw 
Mr. Young, and together they made arrangements to 
have as many copies printed of Paul’s book as could be 
sold. They still had the copy at the doctor’s that Mr. 
Harvey had loaned Fred Myers, but afterwards Harvey 
consented to give it to those nearest to Paul who did 
not own one. 

Every one in Avondale was asking for the little 
book, and wanted to know whether one could be had. 


344 The Story of a Little Poet 

Many inquired at the doctor’s house, and they were 
sorry that they had none to give them. Then Dr. 
Andrews came and told them of his arrangement with 
Mr. Young, and said that the money obtained by the 
sale of the books should be used in aiding the poor of 
Mill Hollow. They all thought this an excellent idea, 
and one that would be a source of great pleasure to 
little Paul when he recovered. But of course it was 
not mentioned to him at present. Every one wore 
bright and smiling faces in the sick room and talked 
only of things that were cheerful and pleasing. Nell’s 
message to her father was found in one of Paul’s 
pockets and given to him. He cried many times over 
it, and carried it about with him always. It ran thus : 
‘‘Tell Father I know he did n’t mean to leave me, and 
that he would be a good man if the liquor did n’t set 
his brain on fire and make him crazy. Tell him not 
to drink any more, and be good like he used to be to 
Mother and me before he drank that awful stuff. Tell 
him I’m in Heaven now with Mother, and we are 
waiting for him there, and watching him every day, 
only we are not hungry and cold any more. I am sorry 
I cannot see him once more, but I love him and for- 
give him, like Mother did.” 

Mr. Harvey, the furniture man, had become very 
much interested in Fred Myers when he learned that 
he was the little beggar girl’s father, whom Paul 
Arlington had supported by the sale of his books. He 
saw that the man was thoroughly penitent and trying 
to make amends for the years he had wasted, and 
offered him a position in his factory when he heard 
that he had been a cabinet-maker. 

“You will always have steady employment with me 


The Story of a Little Poet 345 

as long as you are sober and industrious,” he said; and 
Fred Myers, with tears in his eyes, thanked him again 
and again, and told him that he felt sure he would 
never have cause to regret taking him in his employ. 

“ Having this with me always,” he continued, taking 
Nell’s message out of his pocket and handing it to Mr. 
Harvey, “ I can never go astray again.” 

Mr. Harvey took the paper and read every word of 
it, and handing it back, said, “Well, if you could do 
so with that always with you, your case would be a 
hopeless one.” 

During Paul’s convalescence old Ned and he had 
become great friends. They had many little talks 
together when Ned brought his meals up, as he often 
did nowadays, for Paul generally ate at the same 
time the family did. Ned, of course, remained in the 
room to wait upon him. 

Paul learned a great deal from Ned about slavery. 
He was on Mrs. Barlow’s grandfather’s place in the 
South before the war and had lived in the family ever 
since, leaving the old place to come North with Mrs. 
Barlow when she married the young physician. 

To have been a real live slave made Ned appear, in 
Paul’s eyes, a very interesting person, and he never 
tired of hearing him relate the incidents in his early 
life before the war. 

Paul was very glad to hear that Mrs. Barlow’s grand- 
father was a good and kind master, and that all his 
slaves were treated well. 

“I’se ’members well, Marse Paul, dat happy day 
when de good news com’,” said Ned. “How dem 
darkies dance an’ sing! dey sholy did; but my ole 
Mammy say dat she wus glad 0’ de great ’casion fo’ 


346 The Story of a Little Poet 

dem dat had hard marsers, but fo’ herse’f, she wuz 
kin’er skeered an’ mo’nful. ” 

“Do you mean she wasn’t glad to be free? ” asked 
Paul, in surprise. 

“’Deed she wus, ’cep’ for dish heah reason. She 
was mo’nful ’bout de ’sponsibilities ter know wot she 
gwine ter do ter feed ten chillrens. Yer see dat made 
de diffunce, caze befo’ de war she nebber wus so pore, 
but dey had some food ter eat and a place ter lay dey 
heads, an’ she wus not berry young any mo’, and hit 
wus de awful ’sponsibility, dat wus all, dat made her 
mos’ crazy.” 

“Yes, that was dreadful,” said Paul, heaving a sigh 
when he thought of the poor negro woman’s predica- 
ment, to be suddenly thrown on the world with ten 
children, though some were able to work. He could 
fully sympathize with Ned’s mother, for had he not 
tried to support only one, and what a hard time he had 
had of it, nearly losing his life in the end. 

“Where was your father, Ned? Couldn’t he work 
for his family?” 

“ Yaas, he sholy could, if de Lawd had n’t tuk him. 
ter hebben befo’ de war; but I ’se want ter tell yer 
’bout dat happy day for Mammy when Marse Johnston 
call all his slaves togedder and tol’ dem dat dey nebber 
hab ter go way frum dat hum ef dey lak ter stay. 

“He said, ‘ I ’se not gwine ter ’suade yer, but jes 
gwine ter tell yer I ’se pay yer all gud wagers ef yer 
stay, frum dish here berry day.’ An’ dat ’s huccum we 
always lib wif Marse Johnston. I ’clar ter goodness! 
yer ought jus’ see old Mammy’s face when she tuk in 
dat s’prisen news. She luk jes lak she find a gol’ 
mine; and, ef yer b’live me, Marse Paul, ebber one of 


The Story of a Little Poet 347 

dem darkies stay wif Marse Johnston fo’ long time, 
and I ’se am de only one left, dat is in dat berry same 
fambly, ter dish day, an’ I ’se hopes ter serve in it ter 
de best ob my ’bility till I ’se jine de odders who hab 
gwine befo’. 

“I’se ’members well how ebberbody lak Marse 
Henry Johnston. He was de fine gen’l’man fo’ yer; 
he waz Misses Barlow’s grandfadder, and her fadder 
was Marse George Johnston ; but sholy he wus de berry 
image of Marse Henry, and wus jes as gud. 

“ Ebber since he waz born, I ’se had de great pleas- 
ure ob waitin’ on him till I ’se cum up to dish here 
place wif Misses Barlow. So yer see, Marse Paul, 
I ’se sholy b’long ter dish fambly.” 

“ I am very glad you happened to be in such a good 
family,” said Paul. “Was it so that some of the 
masters used to beat their slaves?” 

“Sholy hit wuz, an’ I’se gwine ter tell yer ’bout 
dat;” but suddenly Ned hesitated. It had just oc- 
curred to him that he had been warned not to talk 
about anything exciting whenever he was left with the 
little patient, and he had always been very cautious. 
To describe the rough treatment many slaves had suf- 
fered from the cruel masters would be very exciting, 
he thought. 

“What were you going to say?*” asked Paul, wonder- 
ing why he stopped so suddenly. 

Ned cleared his throat, coughed two or three times, 
then said, — 

“ If yer ’ll jes ’scuse me, Marse Paul, I ’se ain’t gwine 
ter tell yer no mo’ ’bout dat special subjec’. I ’se got 
obstructions ter ’bey, so doan coax me ’bout dat ter 
day.” 


348 The Story of a Little Poet 

Ned looked so serious while he spoke that Paul 
laughed outright. 

‘‘I know that you are afraid it might hurt me to 
hear about it; is that the reason, Ned?” 

“You doan know, Marse Paul, hit might, dat ’s a 
trufe; and I ’se got my specified orders on dat subjec’, 
and ole Ned gwine tek the best keer ob yer, when I ’se 
hab de ’sponsibilities ob yer.” 

“ Thank you,” said Paul, in his old-fashioned way. 
“You are very kind to be so careful of me. Every- 
body is so good and careful, Ned. I wonder why it is, 
when I give people so much trouble ? ” 

Paul’s face assumed quite a serious expression as 
he looked up from his waiter (for he was eating his 
dinner) and gazed off into space. 

“Now, doan yo’ look lak dat, Marse Paul! doan do 
hit!” implored Ned, stepping over in front of Paul’s 
chair, then kneeling and clasping his hands in a most 
beseeching manner. Ned’s attitude caused Paul’s ex- 
pression to change immediately, and he could not help 
smiling at his earnestness. 

“Dare, dat ’s hit, leetle Marse,” he exclaimed, joy- 
fully, when Paul put on a broad smile. “ Hit brek ole 
Ned’s heart ter hab yer look lak yer lost ebber friend 
in der hoi’ worl’, an’ talk lak yer waz a wicked sin- 
ner; an’ de Lawd hissef knows yo’ are not if yer don’ 
yo’se’f.” 

“ Oh, Ned, don’t talk that way ! ” said Paul, in great 
earnestness, leaning back and clasping his hands in his 
old earnest way. “Nell always used to think I was 
so good; but her mind was weak, and she couldn’t 
think right, you know. But your mind is strong, and 
you know better. When I tell you some of the dread- 


The Story of a Little Poet 349 

ful things I have done, you will change your mind 
about me. You must know all about people to tell 
how good they are, Ned, you know; ” and Paul smiled 
and unclasped his hands, placing one on Ned’s white 
woolly head as he still knelt before him. This little 
act of affection so pleased old Ned that he never spoke 
or moved for a moment, for fear that he would quickly 
remove his hand ; and he wished that it were possible 
for him always to be at the feet of such a sweet young 
master, and would always have been ready to do his 
bidding. 

“Yo’ don’ know yo’se’f, bressed chile,” he said, 
after a pause, “but ebberbody else am aware of de 
fac’,” and Ned closed his eyes and shook his head very 
solemnly. 

Just then the curtains parted, and Aunt Helen 
stepped in, followed by Dr. and Mrs. Barlow. 

Old Ned jumped up quickly, rather abashed at being 
discovered in such a posture, but not before they had 
all seen the beautiful little tableau. The doctor put 
him at his ease immediately, however, by saying, 
“Well, I see, Paul, you have Ned at last where you 
have placed us all, — at your feet;” and as he spoke 
he kneeled in a most profound manner before the little 
invalid’s chair, where Ned had just been. 

This made them all laugh, and Paul said, “ I was 
just telling Ned I did n’t see what made every one so 
kind to me, when I have given so much trouble. 
And Aunt Helen,” he added, glancing up at her shyly, 
“ I don’t see how she can love me one bit.” 

“Your Aunt Helen always did love you, darling,” 
she said, leaning over and taking one of the little 
transparent hands in hers, and smoothing it tenderly. 


350 The Story of a Little Poet 

“ But I love you more now, because I understand you 
better; and it was all my fault that you did not con- 
fide in me more, and you are not to blame for anything 
you did; so do not trouble your little heart any more 
about such thoughts.” 

“You know, my dear boy, when any one feels sure 
in his heart that he is doing right, but finds out after- 
ward that he has been mistaken, he cannot be held 
responsible, because he acted at the time, as he hon- 
estly thought, for the best,” said Mrs. Barlow. 

“Yes, I acted, as I honestly thought, for the best,” 
repeated the little philosopher, in his same old earnest 
way. 

“ Then gloomy thoughts away, away ; 

You can no longer with me stay. 

I ’ll waste no time to grieve and pine, 

O ’er sins they tell me are not mine,” 

said Dr. Barlow, making them all laugh again. “ How 
is that for a poem on the spur of the moment ? ” he 
asked, looking at Paul’s smiling face. 

“Did you really make it up just on the moment? ” 
asked Paul, in surprise. “ Why, you would make a 
splendid poet, Doctor, I think.” 

“Thank you,” said the doctor, with a polite bow. 
“I am very glad indeed to be so appreciated; but I 
must leave you all now, as I must see some patients. 
And my little one here must lie down immediately and 
take a long sleep.” 

The room was darkened, and Aunt Helen sat beside 
him. She thought at one time that he was asleep, 
when he suddenly opened his eyes and said, “I am 
glad you know me now, Aunt Helen. It took a long 
while for you to get acquainted with me and for me 


The Story of a Little Poet 351 

with you, did n’t it ? And you love the poor now too, 
don’t you? ” 

“Yes, dear, I have much more sympathy for them 
now, thanks to the lesson you taught me; but you can 
never expect me to love them as you do.” 

“They are all so good to me here, Aunt Helen; and 
don’t you think I have been an awful trouble to them 
all and to you ? ” 

“They tell me you have not, Paul; and the doctor 
said that if you were to be ill and under his care, this 
is just the place he would want you to be.” 

“ I wonder what makes him so good to me? ” 

“Just because he loves you, dear; and he has taken 
a great interest in you ever since the day that you 
came to tell him about Nell; and, you know, when we 
love any one it is never a trouble to do anything for 
them.” 

“Then I didn’t love you, Aunt Helen,” he said 
honestly, but with a sadness in his voice; “because if 
I had, I would have done everything you wished me to, 
and I thought I had to do what the Bible said.” 

“If you did not love me, darling, it was not your 
fault, but all my own, I am afraid.” 

“But I love you now, anyway, Aunt Helen, and I 
am sorry I did not tell you all,” he said, his eyes clos- 
ing while he spoke. 

“Yes, I know you are,” she answered, bending over 
the little wasted form. Then two little thin arms 
wound about her neck, and she lifted him on her lap 
and softly sang the lullaby that his mother had been 
accustomed to sing to the children when they were 
babies ; and even when they were older, and not well, 
they had asked to be rocked and soothed to sleep 


352 The Story of a Little Poet 

in the same old baby fashion, and begged to hear 
the words of the sweet lullaby they had known from 
infancy : — 

“ Go to sleep, my darling, for the night has come ; 

Shadows fast are falling with the setting sun ; 

Softly blow the breezes, lulling thee to rest ; 

Under eaves the swallows seek their downy nests. 

Slumber ! Slumber ! sweetly ! Slumber on 
Till again the sunbeams waken thee at dawn.” 


CHAPTER XXIII 


T HE robins had come again, and so had the daisies 
and buttercups, and with them a pale little face 
made its appearance, for the first time for several 
months. Ned carried Paul down to sit on the side 
porch on warm days now. He had never known before 
what it was to be an invalid, and not to feel strong, and 
able to come and go at will. 

He wondered if he would ever be able to run and 
romp again, for even yet his knees trembled when he 
started to walk, and often he would have fallen, had not 
some one been there to support him. 

To sit under the vine-covered porch was a pleasant 
change for the little invalid, for he saw many things to 
interest him ; old Ned had to work in the garden now 
every day, besides keeping an eye on Paul, who had 
become quite dependent on him, and he made an excel- 
lent nurse for the convalescing little patient. 

The doctor would not listen to Paul’s going home, 
and so Aunt Helen divided her time between the two 
houses. All in the doctor’s house wore smiling faces 
now; they could not hide the joy that they felt in the 
recovery of the little boy who was found that cold night 
by their door, and to whom they had become warmly 
attached. 

For weeks the servants had spoken in whispers, and 
walked on their toes, and wore the gravest faces ; but 

2 3 


354 The Story of a Little Poet 

now they had all resumed their natural manner, and 
sang and laughed among themselves, anxious to wait 
upon Paul, and to be useful in any way possible to him. 

Old Ned wore a broad grin on his old wrinkled face 
constantly, and hummed low to himself the old tunes 
his mammy sang years ago. 

This one seemed to be his favorite, and Paul often 
listened to the words, while Ned worked among the 
flowers. 

“ Cum along, chillun, cum along now, 

Fo’ de mo’nful day is past ; 

Cum sing de happy song ter de Lawd, 

Fo’ de joy dat cum at last. 

“ Oh, chillun, sing away, 

An’ doan keer what dey say ; 

Jes keep right on till dar no mo’ bref, 

An’ den kneel down an pray. 

“ Cum along, chillun, lif’ up yer voice, 

Doan let dish chance go by ; 

Or de Lawd won’ send sech a joy agin, 

But He ’ll make yer moan an’ cry.” 

“ Oh, chillun, sing away, etc.” 

Frequently while at work, Ned walked up to the porch 
to hold a few moments’ conversation, or to listen to 
some suggestion of Paul’s on the laying out of the doc- 
tor’s garden, and whether he agreed with him or not, he 
always carried out the suggestion, if it were possible. 
He soon discovered that Paul had wonderfully good 
ideas, and that it was advisable to carry them out. 

One day he said, “ Sholy, Marse Paul, I ’se nebber 
know of a chile dat hab sech pow’ful idees ’bout flowers ; 
huccum yer ter learn ’bout mos’ ebbery one, and jes 
whar ter plant dem?” 


The Story of a Little Poet 355 

“ I learned by watching Pat, and by watching the 
flowers myself,” replied Paul. “ Pat was a splendid 
gardener, and, just think, it has been about nine months 
since I saw him, the longest time I have been without 
seeing him in my life, Ned.” 

Ned was conscious of a little twinge of jealousy when- 
ever the subject of Pat, the Beechwood gardener, was 
brought up, for Paul always spoke of him in such glow- 
ing terms that poor Ned always felt very insignificant 
in comparison. 

“ Tears ter me dat Pat wuz a mos’ s’prisen wonderfu’ 
man,” said Ned, glancing at Paul from the corner of 
his eye, while he leaned on a hoe by the porch 
step. 

“ Yes, he is a wonderful man, I think,” said Paul. 
“ He is so smart about things.” 

“ Is it de kin’ ob smartness dat dey learn in books, 
Marse Paul?” he asked, rather sadly, for if it was, he 
thought it was no wonder Paul liked him so much, and 
he could never hope to be thought the same of. 

“No, he did not learn his smartness in books,” re- 
plied Paul, which was a great relief to Ned to hear. 
“ He just learn’d by working every day, by osserva- 
tion [observation] I think you call it; when you learn 
things without books or going to school, and by ex- 
perience, you know, when you live long and see a great 
deal.” 

' “ Tears ter me, Marse Paul, ole Ned ken learn mon- 
s’rous lot by dat way yer say obzervation, wif no books 
an no school ; doan yer think yo’se’f I ’se ken learn lak 
yer Pat ob Beechwood.” 

“ Why, of course you can ; you are learning that way 
all the time.” 


356 The Story of a Little Poet 

But Ned did not understand, and was afraid to ask 
an explanation for fear of showing his ignorance. 

“ I don’t think Pat is any smarter than you,” continued 
Paul. “ Why, he hardly knows anything about the slaves 
in the South, and I have learned more from you than I 
would from a book.” 

This flattering remark greatly pleased old Ned, and 
assured him that if Pat was thought more of, it was not, 
after all, because he was smarter than he, and perhaps 
in time the little invalid would think just as much of 
him. 

“ I ’se tell yer, Marse Paul,” he said, shaking his head, 
“ I ’se gwine ter stan’ by yo’ on ebbery ’casion. Doan 
go anywhar by yo’se’f again when pore folks are suffrin’ 
fer bread, kase ef yer hab ter go, ’members ole Ned ’ill 
tek yer, and nebber, nebber go alone.” 

Paul could not help smiling at the serious tone with 
which he said this, and he knew why he said it. 

“ You need never be afraid of me going alone to Mill 
Hollow again, Ned. You see I am older and have 
learned a great deal since I have been here.” 

“ I ’se mighty glad yer learned dat ; it am s’prisen 
what yer learn in de time ob sickness. I ’se know by 
my own ’sperience on de berry same ’casions,” said 
Ned. 

One bright day in May, Paul sat in his usual place 
on the side porch, while Ned worked in the garden 
close by, keeping a watch over him. Aunt Helen was 
to come that day with Roy and Grace. All three 
children looked forward to these visits with the greatest 
pleasure. The children had been to see Paul several 
times, but their visits were short, as it did not take very 
much to tire him, for his nerves were still very weak. 


The Story of a Little Poet 357 

Roy’s company especially often proved to be too 
hilarious. 

“ Here cum de lil chillun up de road,” called Ned. 
“ Dey am jes as sweet as angels. Lil Roy allers look 
lak he wuz kin’ ob skeered when he see you, Marse 
Paul, and de lil girl look lak she was gwine ter cry de 
first time she see yer. Dey sholy am berry sorry for 
yer, sence yer hab been sick.” 

“ I think Robin has been sorry, but I don’t think Roy 
could be so dreadfully sorry about anything,” said Paul. 
" He is one of the jolly kind, you know, and never wants 
to think about things, — just to have lots of fun all the 
time. I wish I could be jolly and think too,” continued 
the little philosopher, gazing out through the trees and 
over the flowers to the road beyond where, now and 
then, he caught a glimpse of his aunt, Roy, and Grace 
nearing the house. Roy was ahead on a run, hitting 
everything he passed with a switch he had broken from 
some bush. 

“ I ’clar ter goodness he sholy is jolly lil feller, an’ 
ain’ gwine mek hissef sick wid de ’sponsibilities of de 
pore,” said Ned, laughing and shaking his woolly head, 
watching with Paul the antics of Roy as he skipped 
gayly along, whistling a popular tune. 

“ But nebber mine, Marser Paul,” he went on quickly, 
noticing Paul’s envious look, and thinking he was feeling 
badly at not being able to do as Roy did. “ Doan be 
a-lookin’ kin’er sad ’bout dat, caze berry soon yer will 
be running an’ skipping jes lak him agin, an’ ole Ned ’ll 
run a race wid yer, fo’ berry long.” 

“ No, Ned, I shall never be like Roy,” said Paul, shak- 
ing his head in a very decided way. “ I tried so many 
times when I was well, but I had to give it up. It is 


358 The Story of a Little Poet 

just this way, you see. I have to think, and Roy don’t; 
and when you have to think so much, you can’t be 
jolly.” 

“ Yer hab ter think! Why, me bressed chile, we all 
hab ter think. How cum dat gwine ter keep yer frum 
gettin’ strong an’ bein’ ’bout on yer legs agin, I ’se lak 
ter know.” 

“It’s hard to explain just what kind of thinking I 
mean, Ned.” 

“ I ’se s’pose hit would be mighty hard ter ’splain dat 
dey subjec’ an’ mek hit clair ter me understatin', Marse 
Paul; caze I ken nebber see how cum thinkin’ could 
hab anything ter do wid keepin’ yer off yer legs. ’Pon 
me word, I ’se doan, an’ fer yer ter be ez jolly ez de lil 
feller comman up de road. 

“ But we ain’ got no mo’ time ter specify our ’pinions 
on dish har argyment now. We will jes pos’pone hit 
till de nex’ ’casion we hab togedder,” and with these 
words Ned walked down the gravel path to open the 
gate for the visitors. 

The children had been warned never to make any 
remarks to Paul about his appearance, for Aunt Helen 
knew they would be shocked at the great change in 
him the first time they saw him, and she tried to pre- 
pare them for it. 

“ Do not speak about his sickness at all, children,” 
she had said. “ But talk about everything that is bright 
and pleasant.” 

“ I ’ll just tell him he looks as strong as a giant,” said 
Roy. 

“ ’Es, jes as strong as er giant,” repeated Grace. 
“ At’s what we say,” so every time they saw him they 
greeted him with the same words. 


The Story of a Little Poet 359 

Roy, as usual, was first to arrive, with sparkling eyes 
and ruddy complexion, full of animal spirits, presenting 
a great contrast to the little pale invalid in his dressing- 
gown among the cushions. 

“Hello, Perseffer! How are you? Why, you look 
as strong as a giant,” he said, coming up close to Paul 
and kissing him. As he did so, Paul dropped the book 
he had been reading. 

“ Never mind ; I ’ll get it,” said Roy, quickly, as Paul 
made efforts to stretch over the side of the chair for it. 
“You might hurt yourself, Persef, doing that, and get 
a collapse into the fever again.” 

“ Thank you,” said Paul, laughing, as Roy again 
placed the book on his lap. “ But I ’ve lost my place 
now, and if I can’t find it, that might give me one,” and 
they laughed heartily at what they thought a very funny 
joke indeed. 

Just before Aunt Helen and Grace reached the 
porch, Roy ran to meet them and whispered to Grace, 
“ Don’t forget to tell him he looks as strong as a 
giant.” 

“No, I won’t fordet,” said Grace, with a very serious 
face, and, stepping up immediately, said, “ You look as 
strong as er giant, Bruver Paul. Are you yight well 
now? ” 

“ I am getting well as fast as I can,” he replied, bend- 
ing over to kiss her. 

“ Has you dot a dood appletite now, and tan you eat 
woast beef and hot takes yet? ” 

“ I have had some roast beef, but no hot cakes,” 
replied Paul, while he and the rest laughed. 

“ Did n’t you find your place in the book, Perseffer? ” 
asked Roy. 


360 The Story of a Little Poet 

“ I will look for it some other time. I want to talk, 
now.” 

“ Why don’t you have a book-keeper [book-marker] 
in it, then you ’d never lose it,” said Roy. 

“ A book-keeper ! ” said Aunt Helen, laughing, “ I 
guess you mean book-marker, don’t you? ” 

“No, I mean a book-keeper. You know, to keep 
your place in a book. Not a book-marker to make a 
mark in it.” 

“ It is a book-marker because it marks the place 
where you left off by being placed in that page,” said 
Aunt Helen, trying to explain. 

“What is your book called, Perseffer?” continued 
Roy, not paying much attention to his mistake. 

“ It is called, ‘ The Swiss Family Robinson,’ and it is 
a fine book, but I can only read one chapter a day. I 
just begin to get acquainted with them all when I have 
to stop short.” 

“ My ! I don’t think I ’d like to read about the son of 
a robin, in a Swiss family. I like books about the 
Indians, wars, and bull fights. And do you know, I am 
awful mad at the liberian [librarian] of our Sunday 
School, ’cause he won’t give me any book I ask for. 
Guess what he sent me last Sunday, Perseffer? ” 

“ I could n’t,” replied Paul. 

“Why, 4 How Molly Helped Her Grandmother,’ just 
as if I wanted to know how Molly helped her grand- 
mother.” 

“ I don’t think I should like that either,” said Paul, 
laughing, as he had been doing ever since Roy made 
his appearance. 

“ I ’m sorry you did n’t get to see ‘ Cinderella,' Persef. 
I tell you it was a fine play; was n’t it, Grace? ” 


The Story of a Little Poet 361 

“ ’Es, it was a fine play, an’ Cin’erella dot out of er 
titchen where her sisters put her, and er Prince put on 
er gass sipper, and it fit her, and ’en she was all dessed 
in a petty dess and danced at er ball.” 

“ Grace always wanted the spy-glass [opera-glass] and 
would n’t let me hardly have it at all,” said Roy. “ It ’s 
fun to look through it, for, Persef, it brings everything 
smack up close to you.” 

“ When I go, I don’t like things so close. It does n’t 
seem so real as a little way off,” said Paul. 

“ Oh, it does to me, seems realer. I just think every- 
thing is just living and going on like we are every day; 
and when the curtain goes down, then I remember they 
were only playing all the time. It’s fun, though, Persef, 
and I tell you I was glad I was alive that day. 

“We was a little late for the show, and the banders 
were playing, but we got our seats all right, Persef, for 
they were preserved for us.” 

“ Now, you little chatterbox, please be quiet for just 
a few moments, and give some one else a chance to say 
a word,” said Aunt Helen. “ Go over and talk to Ned 
for a while.” After he had run off, she said, “ I have 
some good news for you, Paul. Can you guess?” 

“ Anything about Father and Mother? ” he asked. 

“No.” 

“ Oh ! I know,” he said suddenly, “ Dr. Andrews is 
coming.” 

“You are right; he is coming with your father and 
mother, and will stay a whole week in Avondale. I am 
going with him to New York to meet the steamer, and 
we shall all return together.” 

“Oh, won’t it be a happy time?” said Paul. “I 
don’t feel a bit homesick about Beechwood. How glad 


362 The Story of a Little Poet 

I shall be to see everybody; and won’t Dr. Andrews 
have lots to tell me about the Home children, Pat and 
Aleck, and everybody in Arlington Heights? You are 
glad now I found the organ-grinder that day I went out 
for a walk, are n’t you? ” 

“ Certainly, I am very glad indeed that it all turned 
out as it did, and that the old man had the best of care 
during the last weeks of his life, and that his little lame 
girl has found such a good home, and is growing stronger 
every day. But it might have proved otherwise, Paul, 
for all the poor miserable people one sees are not, as a 
rule, of the same character as the blind man happened 
to be, and it is not safe for a child to pick up such ac- 
quaintances on the street.” 

“ But I knew he was good, Aunt Helen, indeed, I did,” 
said Paul, earnestly. “ I could tell by his face. And 
even if he was n’t good, he was sick and blind, and a 
man who is sick and blind couldn’t do anybody any 
harm, if he was bad,” continued the little philosopher. 
“And how dreadful it would have been if he had died in 
their little hot room with no food, for when he got too 
weak to go on the street, they would n’t have had any 
money at all, and perhaps would have starved to death.” 

“Very likely,” said Aunt Helen ; “ but they did n’t, so 
do not try to picture all sorts of horrible things that 
might have happened.” 

Baby Grace had been standing by Paul’s chair, listen- 
ing to this conversation, watching his thin face, which 
always made her feel very sad, and finally she said, “ I 
was dawn to make poetries about er birds and fowers 
when I dot a big dirl, jes ’ike you, Bruver Paul, but den 
I don’t want ter det sick ’ike you. Does eveybodies 
det sick what makes poetries? ” 


The Story of a Little Poet 363 

" Why, no, of course not, Robin,” said Paul. “ Why, 
I know lots of poets who made poetry for years, and I 
never heard that it made them sick. There ’s Shaks- 
pere, Longfellow, Tennyson, and ever so many others, 
who wrote hundreds and hundreds of verses.” 

“ Well, ’en how did it make you sit wiv er brain wob- 
blin’ sitness,” she asked. 

This made Paul and Aunt Helen laugh. “ Why, who 
said I had a brain wobblin’ sickness?” asked Paul. 

“ Why, Roy say ’at you had, ’tause your brain wob- 
bled all ayound and ’at ’s why the reason you made too 
much poetries.” 

“Roy is mistaken this time,” said Aunt Helen. 
“ Paul had a fever because he got very tired by working 
so hard for poor little Nell, but he is getting all right 
now, and in a week or two we will have him home.” 

“ Oh, I ’m awsul glad,” said Grace, clapping her 
hands. “ ’ Tause I ’m dettin’ tired wivout you, Bruver 
Paul, and it ’s awsul lonesome evy day and nights.” 

“ Yes, we do miss you every day,” said Roy, hearing 
Grace’s last remark, as he stepped up on the porch. 
“ There ’s nobody to tell me about bugs now, and I ’ve 
found some new ones I ’m saving for your cabinet.” 

“ I hope you killed them quickly,” said Paul, “ and 
did n’t let them suffer.” 

“ Well, I did n’t have any chloforn in a bottle like 
you, ’cause Aunt Helen said she could n’t intrust me with 
it, but, Persef, I found a bottle of benzine, and then when 
Hulda was n’t looking, I got some vinegar out of the 
jug. Then I mixed that with the benzine in a tin can, 
and I put the bugs in, then laid a stone on top, and, 
when I looked the next day, they were the deadest bugs 
you ever saw in your whole life.” 


364 The Story of a Little Poet 

“ ’Es, ’ey were jes as ded as ’ey tood be, Bruver Paul, 
an’ I des ’ey did n’t feel er ’east bit of pain,” said Grace, 
noticing Paul’s look of surprise. 

“Well, I ’d rather you would n’t kill any more until I 
come home,” said Paul. “ I ’m afraid they did n’t die 
easily that way. They must have struggled a good 
while in the vinegar and benzine before they died.” 

“ Oh, no, they did n’t,” said Roy, quickly. “ You 
know I stuck each one to a little block of wood with a 
pin, and tied a big nail to every block, so they would n’t 
come up ; so, you see, they drowned right straight off.” 

Paul gave a shudder as he said, “ Oh, that was 
dreadful, Roy ! How would you like some one to run a 
big iron spike through you? That is just how a pin felt 
going through them.” 

“ Oh, that was n’t anything,” said Roy, in his off- 
handed way. “ You see, as soon as I put the pin in, as 
quick as lightning I put them into the benzine ; and 
they were drowned before they had time to think there 
was something going through them.” 

“ I am afraid, Roy, it will be necessary to report 
you to the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to 
Animals,” said Aunt Helen. “ It does not make any 
difference how small an insect it is, it is downright 
cruelty to run a pin through its body. And I am sure 
that neither Paul nor Grace would be guilty of such 
an act.” 

“ ’ Deed, I did n’t think that was a cruel way to kill 
them,” said Roy. “ I thought it was the quickest after 
chloforn ; but I ’ll bring it to you when I catch another, 
Perseffer. I was kind to a poor old catapillar one day, 
anyhow. He was sick, and I tried awful hard to get 
him well again. He must have had a broken back, 


The Story of a Little Poet 365 

because he was all screwed up in a bunch, and could 
hardly walk. I just said, ‘ Now, Mr. Catapillar, I won’t 
kill you, I will just be kind like the Perseffer.’ Did n’t I, 
Grace? ” he asked, turning toward her. 

“ ’Es, he did, Bruver Paul, he was awsul kind ’at day.” 

“ I just went straight upstairs,” continued Roy, “ and 
got the bottle of fennel zodiac [Phenol Sodique] med- 
icine and poured it all over his back; but it did n’t cure 
him, after all, Persef, it gave him a fit. He must have 
been dying, and did n’t want to be disturved. It was 
the worst fit I ever saw an animal have; and so, of 
course, I had to kill him, after all. Because, Perseffer, I 
just thought if I was a catapillar in a fit and could talk, 
I would say, ‘ Oh, please kill me as quick as you can,’ 
so I smashed him with a cobblestone. But say,” he 
went on, without stopping, “why don’t you come home 
now? Aunt Helen can take care of you, can’t you ?” 
he asked, turning toward his aunt. 

“Yes, I am sure I could look after him now,” Aunt 
Helen replied ; “ but Dr. Barlow wants to keep him right 
here for a little while longer, — until he can walk better, 
anyhow ; and we are so grateful for all he has done for 
Paul and for me, that I must consent to do just as he 
desires in the matter.” 

“ I want to go home now, and yet I don’t want to 
leave Dr. Barlow,” said Paul. “ But even if I went now,” 
Dr. Barlow said I could not work in the garden; and, 
you know, I would only have to sit still nearly all the 
time, anyhow. Ned said he fixed the garden just the 
way I wanted it; so I guess it will be all right. 

“ Dr. Barlow has been so good to me, and made me 
well, you know; so I don’t want to tell him that I want 
to leave him and go home.” 


366 The Story of a Little Poet 

“ I think doctors must be awful smart men, Persef. 
Do you think Dr. Barlow is as smart as George Wash- 
ington?” said Roy. 

The little philosopher blinked his eyes thoughtfully 
for a moment, and then said, — 

“ Well, I think any man who can keep people from 
dying must be smarter than George Washington. But 
then that ’s a different thing, which is n’t on the same 
subject that we were talking about.” 

“ I think it ’s on the same subject,” said Roy. “ But 
why can’t anybody say if a man is smarter than another 
man, no matter what the subject is ? ” 

“Well, they can,” said Paul, looking very serious, 
scratching his head and stopping to think again, while 
Aunt Helen looked out over the lawns and flowers, as 
though indifferent to the conversation, but was listening 
very attentively all the time, and anxious to hear the out- 
come of this argument. 

“ Yes, they can, if they want to,” repeated Paul. “ But 
we were not talking about that; and you ought to finish 
one subject first, and not start another right in the 
middle of it. But I would n’t say it that way, anyhow. 
I would say, 4 Who do you think the bravest, — doctors 
or soldiers?’ ” 

“ Well, who do you, then, Persef ? ” 

“ I think doctors are the bravest and best. They do 
more than soldiers, because they save lives.” 

“ Yes, but a soldier saves his country, don’t he? And 
if he does kill people, he has to do it, or else they would 
kill him. You know, Persef, you have to kill in self- 
offence [defence] but, I guess, a doctor ’s a good trade, 
too. Maybe you would like it now, better than being 
that thing Mr. Timothy Jenks says, ’ cause I would n’t 


The Story of a Little Poet 367 

look after the poor Persef if your trade had to be called 
such a funny name as Phil Anther’s fist.” 

This made Paul laugh so heartily that Aunt Helen 
feared the consequences, but she was obliged to laugh 
herself, too, for Roy broke out in one of his merry peals 
when he saw Paul so amused, and even baby Grace joined 
in, though she did n’t exactly understand the joke. 

“ What was that you said, Roy? ” Aunt Helen asked. 

“ Why, old Mr. Timothy Jenks said ” (he went on laugh- 
ing all the time) “ that if the Persef ’s trade when he gets 
a man is to look after the poor, it had to be called Phil 
Anther’s fist ; ” and with the last word Roy burst forth 
again in one of his loud peals of laughter, which could 
be heard all over the place, and brought old Ned around 
to the porch to ascertain what the fun was about. 

“ What does he mean, Paul? Explain it to me, won’t 
you?” and as soon as he could compose himself suffi- 
ciently, he told Aunt Helen about their visit to Timothy 
Jenks’s that winter afternoon, and that he called him a 
name that sounded to Roy like Phil Anther’s fist. 

It then dawned upon Aunt Helen what it all meant. 
“ Oh, I see,” she said, laughing, “ he called you a 
philanthropist.” 

“Yes, that’s it,” said Paul; and again all laughed, 
while old Ned wiped his eyes and fairly shook his sides, 
after he heard the explanation and watched Roy’s red 
face and heard his merry laughter, which was so conta- 
gious that every one was forced to join in it. 

“ I ’clar ter goodness,” he said, “ he sholy is a jolly 
lil feller. An’ ain’ gwine ter mek hisse’f sick wid de 
’sponsibilities ob de pore, I ’se suah ’bout dat.” 

In the midst of all the laughter, Dr. Barlow drove in 
the gate. 


368 The Story of a Little Poet 

“ What a happy-looking little group ! I am very glad 
to see you both,” he said to the children, “ and I see 
that you have brought much sunshine with you.” Then 
taking a chair, he placed Roy on one knee and Grace 
on the other. “You have brought the roses to your 
brother’s cheeks, and he is looking unusually bright this 
afternoon. Don’t you think so, Miss Wesley? ” 

“ I do see a great improvement to-day,” replied Aunt 
Helen ; “ and if Roy’s visits prove so beneficial, I would 
advise one every day. 

“You should have been here a few minutes sooner,” 
she continued, “ you too would have had a good laugh ; 
besides, you would have heard something very compli- 
mentary.” 

“ Indeed ! Well, now, you have my curiosity greatly 
aroused, for I rarely receive a compliment, and one 
from Roy would be worth hearing.” 

“ The compliment was Paul’s,” said Aunt Helen, 
laughing. 

“ From you, then, Paul ! Well, I am just as anxious 
to hear it.” 

“ I think that she means this,” said the little philos- 
opher, in his old-fashioned way : “ I thought doctors 
were braver than soldiers, because they saved lives.” 

“ Thank you ! Thank you very much ! ” said the 
doctor, laughing : “ but remember, Paul, in spite of 
my greatest efforts, I have lost some patients.” 

“ Well ! you saved the Perseffer, anyhow,” said Roy, 
“ so over at our house we think you are braver than any 
soldier, even George Washington; don’t we, Grace?” 

“ ’Es, we do, an’ we are awsul happy, dotter ; you dot 
Bruver Paul well an’ we tan have him back adain, ’tause 
we did n’t want him ter doe ter heaven, an’ ’en our farver 


The Story of a Little Poet 369 

and murver were ever so far away too, it would be awsul 
sadful ; ” and Grace lifted up her great dark eyes in such 
an appealing way to the doctor’s face that every one 
felt rather strange and grew suddenly very quiet Aunt 
Helen turned her head away, and the doctor drew Grace 
closer to him, and kissed her forehead softly. Then he 
suddenly changed the subject, for Paul was looking 
rather sad, and his eyes were blinking in their old 
nervous fashion, which meant that he was thinking too 
serious thoughts. But he was quickly aroused from his 
reverie when Dr. Barlow began to tell them of his visit 
to Mill Hollow that afternoon, and of Mrs. Stein’s im- 
proved condition ; he had found enough work for her to 
keep her constantly busy. 

“ Is there any one else down there, who might be 
starving?” asked Paul. 

“Not one, I am sure,” replied the doctor; “in fact, 
every one is quite prosperous now in Mill Hollow. The 
mill is running regularly, giving steady work to many, 
and every house has been visited and every needy per- 
son has been looked after ; so do not ever again give 
yourself any uneasiness about any one in Mill Hollow,” 
said the doctor. 

“ Oh, you are so kind, and won’t ever let me worry 
about anything,” said Paul. “You are more and more 
like my Dr. Andrews every day.” 

“ Well ! that is the second compliment I received this 
afternoon,” said Dr. Barlow, laughing. “ I am afraid 
you will make me quite vain, if you keep on.” 

“ To be considered so much like Dr. Andrews is a 
great compliment indeed. When he arrives, we shall 
all have to take a back seat,” said Aunt Helen. 

Paul looked first at one, then the other, and took the 
24 


370 The Story of a Little Poet 

little joke rather seriously, as he said, “ If you mean that 
I shall forget the doctor, and forget Mrs. Barlow and you, 
and all the rest, Aunt Helen, it ’s the greatest mistake in 
the world. And I was just thinking, Doctor,” he con- 
tinued, looking up at him affectionately, “ that when I 
leave you here, it will seem something like when I left 
Dr. Andrews at Beechwood, only I am so glad to think 
you will be nearer, and that I can see you every day 
if I want to, and I shall never forget you as long as I 
live.” 

“ Why, of course, I know you have a large corner in 
your heart for me, Paul, and one for us all. Your aunt 
is only joking, you know.” 


CHAPTER XXIV 


E VERYTHING was in readiness at the quaint little 
house in the oaks, both inside and out. The win- 
dows were thrown open, for it was a balmy day in June. 
The dainty mull curtains fluttered back and forth in the 
soft breezes. The walls of the house were nearly cov- 
ered with ivy, the growth of years, and the porches 
were laden with woodbine now in full bloom, filling the 
air with its delicious perfume. The branches of five 
large oak-trees spread over and around the house like 
great loving arms encircling it. The garden had been 
laid out according to Paul’s idea, the paths widened 
. and freshly graded, weeds and dead brushwood cleared 
away, new flower-beds planted, all done by old Ned 
before Paul left the doctor’s house. Paul was standing 
by the gate now, taking a survey of it all, and trying to 
imagine just how it would impress his parents when 
they arrived, for they were expected that very after- 
noon, and Aunt Helen had gone to New York to meet 
them as they left the steamer. 

“ Of course, it could n’t be like Beechwood,” he 
thought, “ that was so large, but it looks very pretty, 
and puts me in mind of a beautiful picture.” The June 
roses were in bloom, and along the fences were planted 
all sorts of old-fashioned flowers that Paul loved, — 
lilacs, peonies, hollyhocks, poppies, sweet-peas, and beds 
of nasturtiums and pansies were here and there. 


372 The Story of a Little Poet 

His artistic eye took in every spot, and he finally 
came to the conclusion that it was not possible to make 
any improvement. “ I believe I am growing as fond of 
it as Beechwood,” he thought, glancing up at the house, 
and sweeping his eye over all the grounds, and he felt 
sure the travellers would all be pleased when they ar- 
rived. He never once thought of himself, and what 
they would think about the great change wrought in their 
boy when they first saw him. To those who had been 
with him through his long illness, he, of course, was 
looking well at the present time. He had gained stead- 
ily each day, and had not had the slightest drawback. 
His appetite was excellent, in fact, both Hulda and Aunt 
Helen said they never remembered his being so anxious 
for meal-times as he was in these days, and he drank 
plenty of fresh sweet milk ; he was beginning to grow 
fat and improve quite perceptibly, but yet, notwith- 
standing all this, his parents of course would see a great 
change. His hair was short, for one thing, and his face 
still quite pale, and he looked as though he had grown 
two inches. 

The children had been listening for the arrival of 
every train all the afternoon, then they waited anxiously 
to see the station cabs with their dear ones, but they 
had several disappointments, and were getting very im- 
patient. 

“ Pshaw ! I ’m tired waiting, ain’t you, Persef? ” 
called Roy, as he ran down the path, followed by Grace. 

“ It ’s pretty tiresome,” replied Paul, with a sigh. 
“ But we have to wait and can’t help it.” 

“ I think time is the contraest thing I ever knew in 
my life,” said Roy, stamping his foot on the gravel 
path. “ When you want it to go fast, it goes as slow as 


The Story of a Little Poet 373 

a toad, and when you want it to go slow, it goes as fast 
as an engine.” 

“ It just seems that way, but time is the same always ; 
it never changes,” said the little philosopher. 

“ No, it never changes, it is jes er same all er time,” 
echoed baby Grace, “ an’ ’at ’s why the reason we has to 
wait, is n’t it, Bruver Paul? ” and she slipped her hand 
in his as she spoke. 

“Yes, we have to, but I guess they will be here soon 
now. Hark ! is n’t that a whistle ? ” 

All three stood perfectly still for a moment, listening. 
“ Yes, it surely was, for there it goes again, and it is 
from the City too,” said Paul. 

“ Another train ’s come, Hulda,” called Roy, “ and I 
guess they are in this one.” They heard it arrive at 
the station, and then ran outside the gate to watch again 
for the station cabs. It is no disappointment this time, 
for a cab is coming toward the house, with handker- 
chiefs waving from it, and in another moment three little 
children are being hugged and kissed on the sidewalk, 
first by one and then another, till it seemed to Hulda 
that they would never reach the house. 

The travellers had learned all the particulars of Paul’s 
illness on their way from New York to Avondale. They 
had known something about it before, but had no knowl- 
edge of its serious nature. 

“ It was a risk to run, but after talking the matter 
over, we came to the conclusion that it would be advis- 
able not to write you,” Aunt Helen had told them. 

“ It was a risk, and yet I can see that it was done for 
the best, and, as everything has turned out all right, 
we will try not to grieve over what might have been,” 
said Mrs. Arlington. 


374 The Story of a Little Poet 

“ Had I known it, I would have returned immedi- 
ately/’ said Mr. Arlington. “ Nothing could have 
prevented me.” 

There were tears in their eyes when Aunt Helen related 
to them all about poor little Nell Myers, and how Paul 
found her by the church and took her home, and then 
made a little book of poems to sell for her support, and 
she begged their forgiveness for what seemed to her like 
great carelessness on her part in not keeping a closer 
watch on his movements, and for her failure in gaining 
his love and confidence. 

“ Do not make yourself sad by brooding over it any 
longer, Helen dear,” said Mrs. Arlington, kindly. “ Your 
intentions were the best, and it was simply that you 
were not able to understand him. We have so much 
to be thankful for that we will not mar our present hap- 
piness by dwelling over the past.” 

Paul was especially delighted by the great improve- 
ment in his father’s appearance : so great was it that 
even Roy and Grace noticed it immediately. 

“ I never saw you look so strong, Father,” said Paul, 
as they all walked slowly toward the house. 

“ Why, yes, you look like a jolly good fellow now,” 
said Roy. “ I guess you must be strong as a giant.” 

“ Thank you, Roy,” said his father, laughing. 

“ ’ Es, I fink you do look ’ike you were as strong as er 
giant,” echoed Grace. 

“ I feel almost as strong as one, I assure you, children. 
That trip saved my life.” 

“ I was very sorry at first that you went away, and I 
often wished you were back, but now I am glad that 
you stayed and that they did not tell you about my 
sickness,” said Paul. 


The Story of a Little Poet 375 

“ It would have been imprudent if I had returned in 
the winter, my boy ; but I would have come without a 
moment’s hesitation had I known how ill you were. 
But who made all these improvements?” he said, 
changing the subject suddenly, as he took in at a 
glance the alterations, the flower-beds, and the well- 
kept condition of the whole garden. 

“Do you like it?” asked Paul, his face fairly beam- 
ing, for they were all standing in the path and making 
pleasant remarks about the garden. 

“ I told Ned how I wanted it fixed, and he did it all,” 
said Paul. “ He is a good gardener, but he can’t come 
up to Pat.” 

“ It is a great surprise,” said Mrs. Arlington. “ I 
really did not know that the place could be made so 
attractive.” 

“ And I will tell you what I think about it,” said 
Grandma, who thus far had not expressed her opinion, 
but was looking about her with admiring eyes, for it 
was her first visit to Avondale. “ I think,” she said, 
“ that it looks so beautiful and restful here that I will 
make my home in Avondale hereafter, and sell my 
house in New York.” 

“Oh, will you, Grandma dear?” said Paul, throw- 
ing his arms around her. “ Do you really mean 
it?” 

“ Why, that will be jolly, Grandma,” said Roy. 

“ ’ Es it will. I jes love you ter ’tay with us, Drama,’’ 
said Grace, all three surrounding her. 

“And I would love to be with you, darlings,” she 
said. “ I find I cannot live away from you all.” Then 
she laughed, and so did Mr. and Mrs. Arlington and 
Aunt Helen, and all looking at one another in a know- 


376 The Story of a Little Poet 

ing way, as though there was some joke connected 
with Grandma’s coming to live at Avondale. 

The little philosopher, however, had commenced to 
blink; his thinking cap was on. There was something 
back of it all, he was sure. Finally he said, “ Where is 
Aunt Helen going, Grandma? You did not say any- 
thing about her coming.” At which all laughed again, 
with the same mysterious looks at one another, which 
Paul could not understand, but he felt sure of this much, 
that it all concerned Aunt Helen, whatever it was. 

“ There ’s a joke somewhere, but I can’t find it,” he 
said, still looking serious and thinking very hard. 

This only made them laugh the louder, but finally 
his mother said, “ We will tell you what it is after a 
while, for you never could guess.” 

“ How sweet and dainty the house looks ! ” said Mrs. 
Arlington, as they went from room to room. “ Every- 
thing is so clean and fresh,” which remark made Hulda 
very happy, and her face was wreathed in smiles; in 
fact, every one’s face looked smiling, and every heart 
seemed as bright and happy as it was possible to be. 
Yes, just as much so as when they were living at dear 
old Beechwood, for the little house in the oaks was 
growing to be dear to them and to mean home. 

Dr. Andrews arrived that evening, to remain a week 
in Avondale. He had come as far as Chicago with the 
rest of the party, but was obliged to stop there on 
some business and take a later train, and the meeting 
with Paul after the long and anxious separation could 
be better imagined than described. The little house 
was filled almost to overflowing ; it was a great change 
from the small family it had sheltered during Paul’s 
illness. 


The Story of a Little Poet 377 

Paul had so much to say, and so much to listen to, 
that he was not ready for bed when the hour came, and 
the great joke that he had waited to hear quite took his 
breath away when it was told to him. 

“ Before you go to bed, Paul, we will tell you what 
the joke was, as you called it,” said Mrs. Arlington, 
while they all watched him anxiously to note the effect. 
“ Aunt Helen and Dr. Andrews are engaged to be 
married, and in September there will be a wedding, 
and the parsonage next to Beechwood will be their 
home.” 

The boy said nothing for a moment, but sat as one 
dazed ; then he sighed and said, “ That is n’t a joke at 
all.” They all laughed at this, and finally Paul laughed 
also. But he could scarcely realize it, for he had never 
dreamed of such a thing as this coming, and he looked 
first at one smiling face, then at another, in a very 
bewildered way. Finally his father said, — 

“ Are you not going to congratulate them, my son? ” 

Then he arose and stood by his Aunt Helen first, 
and said, “ I am so surprised I don’t know what to say, 
but I ’m glad, Aunt Helen,” and then she drew him 
down on her lap and kissed him. Paul thought he 
never saw her look so pretty, and she never had seemed 
so sweet as now. 

“ I knew you would be glad,” she said, “ and are only 
so surprised it quite paralyzes you, does n’t it?” 

Then he went over to Dr. Andrews’ chair, who did 
just as Aunt Helen did, drew him down on his knee 
and kissed him, while Paul said, “ I am so glad, only 
awfully surprised, Doctor.” 

“ And now I will be your Uncle Theodore, and not 
Dr. Andrews any more.” 


3 78 The Story of a Little Poet 

“ So you will,” said Paul, his face beaming. “ I 
did n’t think of that, and I always wished you could be 
a relative. That will sound so nice to say, Uncle 
Theodore; it seems to make you nearer, and you 
always were near to me, you know.” 

“ And you, Paul, have always been very dear and 
near to me.” 

“ Is n’t it a good thing that Aunt Helen likes the 
poor now? She can help you in your work,” said Paul, 
earnestly. 

“ I am afraid, Paul, that I can never love them as he 
does,” said Aunt Helen, before Dr. Andrews had a 
chance to reply. “ But I love them more than I did, 
and intend to do all I possibly can to aid the doctor in 
his works of charity.” 

“ Oh, I ’m so glad you will help him, Aunt Helen. 
I know that will make him happy, and it would n’t, you 
know, if you did not love the poor and try to help him. 
I ’m so glad you have changed your mind about them.” 

“ I am sure Aunt Helen will make a splendid min- 
ister’s wife. She is loving the poor more every day, 
and you will be surprised after awhile when you hear 
how she is helping me,” said Dr. Andrews. 

“ And then when I grow up all three of us can work 
together, can’t we?” said Paul. 

“ I hope so,” replied Dr. Andrews. 

After good-night kisses, his father carried him up to 
bed and his mother followed. He was still looked upon 
as somewhat of an invalid, and there had been enough 
excitement for one day, they thought. 

“ I feel a great deal wiser and a great deal older since 
my sickness,” he said to his parents, when alone in his 
room. “ It seems like years when I look back upon 


The Story of a Little Poet 379 

last winter, when I found poor Nell by the church, and 
if it should all happen now, I should not think of taking 
care of her all by myself. So you see I must be wiser.” 

“You have learned a lesson, my boy, though it has 
nearly cost you your life. Of course, we all knew that 
you did not realize what you were doing, but these 
severe trials have taught you many hard lessons which 
perhaps you could not have learned in any other way.” 

“ I have so many things to think about, and to be 
glad about, that I am not a bit homesick about Beech- 
wood any more,” said Paul, placing one arm around his 
mother’s neck, and one around his father’s, as they bent 
over his bed. 

“ It has been the happiest day that we have spent for 
a very long time,” said his mother. 

“ I ’m so glad that cough has left you, Father, and you 
look so well ; that makes me happier than anything. 
Then that about Aunt Helen. I can’t tell you how 
glad I am about that, and to think that she loves the 
poor, and will live at the parsonage, and Dr. Andrews 
will be my uncle.” And then he continued, lowering 
his voice and drawing both heads closer, “ I am so 
glad God did not take me away from you, for it would 
have been all dark and gloomy if you came back and 
did n’t find me here, would n’t it? ” 

The light was dim, and he could not see the tears in 
his parents’ eyes that this remark caused. They kissed 
him, and then his father said, “Yes, it would have been 
very dark indeed had you been taken, but you were 
spared to us, as also I have been to you. And we have 
much to rejoice over. Now good-night, and do not 
talk any more, for you have had quite an exciting day 
for a little invalid.” 


380 The Story of a Little Poet 

That week was one long to be remembered by Paul, 
as well as by them all. He learned from Dr. Andrews 
the latest news of all the people he knew in Arlington 
Heights, of the Home, Bill Jones, and the progress of 
the new mission, which especially was of great interest 
to him. And for the first time he heard of the sale of 
the little book of poems, for which there was such a 
demand. To please Paul, Dr. Andrews made a visit 
to Mill Hollow with Dr. Barlow, who was becoming 
deeply interested in the work of charity started in that 
place. He attended all the sick free of charge, and the 
children loved to see him come into their houses, and 
somehow his very presence made them feel better, when 
they were ill. They always ran to meet him, when they 
saw him coming, to ask after Paul Arlington ; and on 
this particular day, when Dr. Andrews accompanied 
him, Dr. Barlow gathered a number of them together, 
and Dr. Andrews stood in their midst and spoke to 
them for some minutes, while Dr. Barlow stepped in a 
house to make a call. They stood with their mouths 
and eyes wide open — their ears too for that matter, — 
taking in every kind word ; and when he talked to them 
of little Paul Arlington, and told them that he had known 
him all his life, and related some incidents in Paul’s 
past life they were delighted. ‘‘Would you like to see 
little Paul? ” he finally asked. 

And in answer there arose a chorus of childish voices, 
exclaiming, “ Yes, we would, we would.” 

“You may come up to-morrow afternoon, all of you, 
if you wish,” he said, “ and Paul will be on the porch to 
receive you. I know he will enjoy a call from you.” 

When Dr. Barlow joined him again, he told him of 
the invitation that he had given the children. The 


The Story of a Little Poet 381 

doctor thought it was a good idea, and wondered 
that he had not thought of it before. 

“Can we bring him some daisies out of the field?” 
faltered a little ragged girl, edging up close to Dr. Bar- 
low’s side. “ He liked flowers, for we used to see him 
bringing them to Nell.” 

Dr. Barlow was touched by the sweet thought of 
this forlorn little creature. 

“ Why certainly, you can bring him as many flowers 
as you wish,” he replied. 

“ He loves the daisies,” said Dr. Andrews, “ and 
all wild flowers. I see you have many growing here in 
Avondale by the roadside, in the fields and woods, and 
he would be delighted with any of them.” 

“ You may tell all the children who live in Mill Hol- 
low that they are perfectly welcome to come,” said Dr. 
Andrews, as they stepped in the carriage. “ Leave here 
about half-past two, and that will bring you all to the 
house about three o’clock. Now don’t forget,” he called, 
while the children shouted after them, “No, we won’t, we 
won’t.” 

When Paul was told of this, he was delighted. “Did 
they really want to see me? ” he asked. 

“ If you had been there, Paul, it would require no 
words from me to assure you of their delight at the 
prospect of calling on you. They have not forgotten 
you through all these weeks of your illness, and inquired 
about you of Dr. Barlow every time they saw him.” 

“ Poor little things ! ” said Paul. “ I love them all. 
Dr. Barlow said they wanted to see me, but he never 
thought of asking them up here.” 

It was an unusual sight in Avondale, and the people 
wondered what could be going on, when they saw about 


382 The Story of a Little Poet 

forty or fifty children walking two by two from Mill 
Hollow, the procession in charge of older ones, who 
managed to keep them in line. Their arms were full of 
wild flowers of all sorts, gathered from the woods and 
meadows. There was not a well-dressed child in the 
whole procession, and some were barefooted and with- 
out hats, but all had made some effort to look well. 
Long rents had been drawn up in their clothes, and 
some attempts had been made to wash faces and comb 
hair. They were very quiet and well behaved, and 
their little hearts were filled with a gladness that shone 
in their faces, for were they not going to see Nell’s 
angel child, and theirs too, for that matter? Nell called 
him that, and he was n’t too proud to talk to them, as 
other fine people were who lived in large houses and 
wore fine clothes. No one was on the porch but Dr. 
Andrews and Paul when they arrived at the gate. Old 
Ned was on hand to make himself useful, and walked 
down to usher them in when he saw them coming up 
the road. 

“ I am very glad to see you all,” Paul said, as they 
stepped up to the porch. 

“ We thought you liked flowers, so we brought all 
these,” said the same little girl who had suggested it 
the day before; and as she spoke she put them down at 
Paul’s feet, and all followed her example, until the boy 
stood in the very midst of a large mound of wild flowers. 

“ Oh, thank you ! thank you ! ” he said again and 
again. “ I love the wild flowers, and these are all beautiful 
ones ; ” and he stooped and lifted some to examine them 
more closely. Then Ned brought some large vases 
Mrs. Arlington gave him, which he soon filled, and 
placed here and there around the porch. 


The Story of a Little Poet 383 

Dr. Andrews made them feel at their ease imme- 
diately, and talked as only he could talk to the little 
children of the poor. Seats were found for them all, 
but for a time they only looked at Paul and listened 
to what he had to say. He had changed wonderfully 
in their eyes. His face was pale and thin, and the long 
golden locks were gone forever; but it was the same 
sweet voice that addressed them, and the same courte- 
ous manners that fascinated them and made them con- 
tent to watch and listen to him. 

“ I often thought of you,” he said, “ when I was 
down in Mill Hollow, and I wanted to get acquainted 
with you ; but Nell, you know, was so sick, I always 
had to go there, and I did not have time to go any- 
where else, or to stop and talk to any one. I suppose 
you all know I have been very ill for a long time, so of 
course I could not get down to see any of you. I 
hope your fathers and mothers are all well, and that 
there is no one sick in Mill Hollow.” 

Dr. Andrews entertained them with a “ Punch and 
Judy” show, which brought forth perfect shouts of 
laughter, after which they were told to amuse them 
selves in any way they desired. There was croquet, 
base-ball, bean-bags, a large swing in the grape arbor 
back, which they soon took possession of, and the 
garden in the oaks never before presented such a gay 
appearance, and never before gave so much pleasure to 
so many little hearts. The children ran hither and 
thither over the lawn and through the trees, with their 
little host walking among them, finding something to 
say to each one, while on the porch the family and 
some neighbors had gathered to watch them. 

It was a great treat and an entirely unexpected one 


384 The Story of a Little Poet 

when ice cream and cake were passed around among 
them. 

Roy was on hand at the refreshment hour. At first 
he said that he would not be there at all, as Mr. 
Timothy Jenks expected Grace with him to spend 
the afternoon at his house (their little quarrel hav- 
ing all been made up), but the refreshments were too 
great an attraction to miss ; besides, Grace was anxious 
to see the children. One boy attracted Roy above all 
the rest. He was very ragged and forlorn, but a large 
mole on his cheek was what interested him, and he 
followed him about, looking up in his face every chance 
he could get. Finally he asked, “ Say, boy, does your 
sore hurt you much? ” 

“ What sore ? ” asked the boy, rather gruffly. “ I hain’t 
got no sore.” 

“ I mean that big brown one on your cheek,” said Roy, 
surprised that he could forget he had such a sore as that. 

Then Mill Hollow’s little ragamuffin thought he was 
ridiculing him, and on the spur of the moment came 
very near knocking him down, when he suddenly re- 
membered where he was, and would surely be sent 
home for such an act. 

Then he said instead, “You know that hain’t no 
sore ; it ’s a mould.” 

“Well, what is a mould? I never saw one in all my 
life,” said Roy; and he looked so serious, and spoke so 
earnestly, that the boy began to think that he was tell- 
ing the truth, and actually meant only to sympathize 
with him, thinking it was a large sore. 

“ Lots of people have ’em,” he said. 

“ Well, I never saw them. Do they hurt, and what 
makes them? ” 


The Story of a Little Poet 385 

“ I don’t know what makes ’em : born with ’em, I 
guess.” 

“ Well, I ’m glad I was n’t born with one,” he said, as 
he skipped off, whistling merrily. 

Sometime after refreshments, the children were given 
a little hint that it was about time that they should take 
their departure ; for there was no telling how long 
they would have remained had this not been done. 
But just then a little girl pulled the sleeve of Dr. An- 
drews by whose side she was standing, and said timidly, 

“ Say, mister, before we go, will yer tell him to sing 
fer us jest like he did for Nell Myers? ” 

“ Why, yes, little one,” replied Dr. Andrews, kindly, 
patting her on her head, “ I am sure he will sing a song 
for you and all the rest, if you would like to hear 
him.” 

She was a frail-looking little thing, and she had been 
hoping all the afternoon that Paul would sing for them ; 
but when the time came for them to leave and he had 
not yet done so, she was so disappointed that she could 
not resist the temptation to ask for a song. 

Dr. Andrews spoke a few words to Paul, then to his 
mother, and turning to the children, who stood grouped 
around the porch, he said, “ A little girl is very anxious 
to hear Paul sing before she returns home ; so, if you 
would all like to hear him, you may remain a little 
while longer.” 

They required no coaxing to stay, and looked pleased 
and eager to hear him. 

“Sing the little Springtime Song, Paul,” said his 
mother, “ and stand right there on the porch, close 
to the window, and I will go inside and play the 
accompaniment.” 


25 


386 The Story of a Little Poet 

The piano stood close to the window; so Paul could 
hear very plainly. He hesitated a little at first, for he 
had not attempted to sing since his illness. 

“ Do you think I can, Mother dear?” he whispered. 

“ Certainly, I think you can at least sing one song,” 
she replied, as she walked in the door. 

Then Paul turned toward the children and said, — 

“ I do not think I can sing very well ; but I will do 
the best I can. You see, I have not sung since my 
illness.” 

The piano inside struck up ; and with his hands be- 
hind him, Paul straightened himself up, and sang sweetly 
this little song, the tune of which he had composed, — 

“ Brightly the flowers are blooming, 

Springtime has come at last, 

Hearts that were sad now are happy, 

For winter days have all passed, 

Every day some joy ’t is bringing 
Making the earth bright and gay, 

And like the birds, my own heart feels like 
Singing, all through the bright sunshiny day. 

“ Hark, hear the robin now singing 
Calling me out to see 
All that the springtime is bringing, 

Each day to charm you and me. 

Buds everywhere are expanding, 

On every bush and tree, 

And the whole world is with joy running over, 

And singing with robin and me.” 

When he had finished, they all called for more. But 
his mother thought it advisable for him not to sing 
again, for she noted that his voice was weaker than she 
had imagined. 


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388 The Story of a Little Poet 

“ Paul will not be able to sing any more for you this 
time,” Dr. Andrews told them ; “ some other time, per- 
haps, when he is stronger, he will sing as many songs as 
you wish ; but would you not like to hear Roy sing 
his Jolly Sailor Song? I am sure he will, won’t you, 
Roy ? ” he asked. 

But, in answer, Roy slid behind his father’s chair, 
by which he had been standing, peeping out with a 
mischievous twinkle in his eye. 

“ Come, come, Roy,” said his father, “ don’t act 
foolishly; and it is getting late; the children must 
be off.” 

“ Oh, I don’t want to sing the Sailor Song,” he re- 
plied ; “I’m not going to be a sailor, so I don’t like to 
sing I am one.” 

Paul had slipped around behind the chair, and said, 
“Well, if you don’t want to sing, why don’t you speak 
your little piece you learned in school? You look just 
exactly like a soldier when you speak it ; and I know 
they will like it,” he whispered. 

“ Do you really think I look like a soldier when I 
speak it, Persef? ” 

“ Yes, I always do ; it just seems to me you are ready 
to fight in a war right off, whenever I hear you and look 
at you.” 

“ All right, then, I ’ll speak it, Persef,” he replied ; 
coming out shyly from behind the chair, just as Paul 
said, addressing the children, “ He won’t sing, but he 
will speak a piece for you; perhaps you will like it 
better.” 

Suddenly Roy seemed to forget his shyness, and, 
with his head thrown back, he stepped out boldly to 
the edge of the porch, and began, with an earnestness 


The Story of a Little Poet 389 

in every word, speaking loud and clear, with a proud 
ring in his voice to the very end, — 

“ When I ’m a man, I tell you what ! 

I ’ll do brave deeds each day, 

I ’ll be a senator, I ’m sure, 

And vote for laws to help the poor. 

I ’ll give the boys a holiday, 

With nothing to do but romp and play ; 

And when there ’s a war, I ’ll be a general true 
And beat off the rebels left and right / 

I ’ll always be in the thickest fight. 

I don’t know what more I ’ll do, 

But maybe I ’ll be the President too.” 

As soon as he had finished, he turned and ran into 
the house as fast as he could go. They all laughed 
and clapped, but could not get him out again ; but 
when he saw them, from his hiding-place behind a 
curtain, shaking hands with Dr. Andrews, then Paul, he 
sneaked out and slid up to Paul’s side, and stood there 
with baby Grace. 

Paul saw Dr. Andrews hold out his hand to shake 
that of each boy and girl, and so he thought of course 
that he must do the same, as they passed, one by one, 
on their way to the gate. 

Roy and Grace felt very proud of Paul as he stood 
there ; and Roy wondered why it was that he could n’t 
make the poor people like him as much as they did 
the “ Perseffer.” 

Over on the grass stood old Ned, with his face 
wreathed in smiles, watching the little scene before 
him, Paul, of course, the greatest attraction in his 
eyes. 

“ I ’clar to goodness, he am jes’ a trueborn lil 


39° The Story of a Little Poet 

gen’leman on ebry ’casion,” he was thinking, “ and 
dem chillen does think heaps ob him, dat am shuah.” 

On the porch stood his father, mother, grandma, and 
Aunt Helen, all with smiling faces, and it is needless to 
say, with happy hearts too. There were tears in Dr. 
Andrews’s eyes as he turned to Aunt Helen and said 
softly, “ I am sure now that you understand the meaning 
of the words, ‘ And a little child shall lead them.’ ” 


A NEW ILLUSTRATED EDITION 
With pictures by REGINALD B. BIRCH 


Little Men 

Life at Plumfield with Jo’s Boys 
By LOUISA M. ALCOTT 

Author of “ Little Women,’* “Eight Cousins,” “An Old- 
Fashioned Girl,” “Spinning-Wheel Stories,” etc. 


With 15 full-page illustrations by REGINALD B. BIRCH, 
illustrator of “ Little Lord Fauntleroy.” 

Crown 8vo. DECORATED CLOTH. $2.00. 


Nothing of its kind could be better than Miss Alcott’s “ Little Men,” 
unless, possibly, her “Little Women.” ... It is the story of boys 
at school, and how they lived there. The boys will like it, for it will 
tell them of their own kind. The mothers will like it, for it is full of 
suggestions on the high art of governing. And everybody should 
read it, for it is cheery and like cordial from beginning to end. — 
Congregationalist . 

Full of vivacity, life, and sparkle, as well as good sense. — Milwaukee 
Sentinel. 

Miss Alcott is really a benefactor of households. — Helen Hunt 
Jackson. 

Bright and sparkling. . . . Never was there such a want of system 
as at Plumfield, and yet never were such happy results attained in 
education before. . . . How jolly would this world be if child-life 
was all a Plumfield experience ! — New York Evening Post. 

Miss Alcott is always welcome, not only to the boys and girls she has 
taken under her special patronage, but also to their elders. . . . Miss 
Alcott’s stories are thoroughly healthy, full of racy fun and humor, 
even when she is teaching some extra hard task which must be learned 
and accomplished. — London Athenaum. 


LITTLE, BROWN, & COMPANY, Publishers 
254 Washington Street, Boston, Mass. 


Anna Chapin Ray's 

SUCCESSFUL 

“Teddy" Stories 


TEDDY : HER BOOK. A Story of Sweet Sixteen . 
Illustrated by Vesper L. George. i2mo. Decorated 
Cloth. $1.50. 

PHEBE: HER PROFESSION. Illustrated by 
F. T. Merrill. 121110. Decorated Cloth. $1.50. 

TEDDY: HER DAUGHTER. Illustrated by J. B. 
Graff. 1 2mo. Decorated Cloth. #1.20 net. {Just Ready.) 


From “THE CHRISTIAN REGISTER” 

P HEBE: HER PROFESSION. By Anna 
Chapin Ray. Last year, whenever the writer 
of this notice was asked, as often happened, “ What 
is the best story for girls that has come out this 
year? ” the answer was prompt, “Miss Ray’s ‘Teddy: 
Her Book * ” ; and the pleasant memory of that leads 
to an early welcome of its sequel, named above. 
Miss Ray's work draws instant comparison with the 
best of Miss Alcott' s ; first , because she has the same 
genuine sympathy with boy and girl life ; secondly , because 
she creates real characters , individual and natural , like 
the young people one knows , actually working out the 
same kind of problems ; and , finally , because her style of 
writing is equally unaffected and straightforward. 

She builds upon clearly thought-out convictions, 
and the influence of the book will be wholly for good, 
tending toward a sane, wholesome view of life gen- 
erally. There is a deal of fun in it too. In short, this 
is one of the few books written for young people 
into the making of which has gone a vigor and grace 
such as one asks for in a good story for older people. 





















































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































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